Homeward Bound
by SpellCleaver
Summary: "Oh, dearest Elide," the queen sighed. "Did you really think the war ended ten years ago?" / Lorcan only wanted to re-establish whatever relationship he'd had with Elide before he'd messed it all up. But it seems the monarchs of Erilea can't stay quiet for long, and soon they're sent south to deal with the latest uprising in a chain of events going back far longer than he expected.
1. Not At All Afraid

_Elide whispered, "I would hide you. In Perranth. If you. . . if you do what you need to do, and need somewhere to go. . . You would have a place here. With me."_

 _His eyes snapped open, but there was nothing hard, nothing cold about the light shining in them. "I would be a dishonoured male - it'd reflect badly on you."_

 _"If anyone thinks that, they would have no place in Perranth."_

 _His throat bobbed. "Elide, you need to-"_

 _But she rose up slightly, replacing her mouth where her fingers had been._

 _The kiss was soft, and quiet, and brief. Barely a grazing of her lips against his._

 _She thought Lorcan might have been trembling as she pulled back. A heat bloomed across her cheeks. But she made herself say, surprised to find her voice steady, "You don't need to answer me now. Or ever. You could show up on my doorstep in ten years, and the offer would still stand. But there is a place for you, in Perranth - should you ever need or wish for it."_

 _Something like agony rippled in his eyes, the most human expression she'd seen him make._

 _But he leaned forward, and despite the marshes, despite what gathered in the world, for the first time in ten years Elide found herself not at all afraid as Lorcan caressed her lips with his own._

* * *

The castle of Perranth still had a tower, Lorcan's finely honed battle instincts noted as he slowly but purposefully made his way up the marble steps. Odd. He would have thought Elide would have had it destroyed as soon as she came into her birth right, rather than let it serve as a constant reminder of the captivity she'd endured. Remembering the story she'd once told him, he scowled at the obsidian pillar, as crude as an industrial chimney amongst fine townhouses when it was against the background of the opulent sky, and splendid castle.

He wondered if she'd learned how to read yet. Surely she must have; a Lady couldn't get by without essential literacy.

He winced to himself. Yes; that was who she was: Elide Lochan, Lady of Perranth. A strong but stern leader, he'd heard from the whispers of her adoring people. A girl who'd walked through the worst of the war that began twenty years ago when she was a child, and come out the other side a changed woman. A woman who wore her scars as proof of her survival; a woman who refused to be looked down on, or cosseted. The woman who still led the way in witch and human cooperation. The woman who had gained support for Aelin and her court not by her non-existent magical prowess, but by being completely and wholly _human_ , despite her witch blood.

She was not Marion, the escaped slave girl he'd agreed to protect as a way to get into Morath, as alike as the cunning minds were.

She was a Lady, and one of the most respected members of the Court of Terrasen. He could not mistake her for a helpless little girl. Not again.

As he came up to the wrought iron gate, he grunted at the guard on watch, who was eyeing him warily. He made sure to keep his hood up, disguising the points of his ears, but he knew that his overall demeanour was intimidating, none the less so when coupled with the preternatural stillness he'd learned as a child, and the overall size of him.

He said smoothly, eloquently, "I'm here to request an audience with the Lady of Perranth." The guard's eyes widened as the man assessed the calm authority in the statement, and finally, the tendril of darkness curling from beneath the hem of his cloak as he walked, like delicate fingers reaching out to snag on the cobblestones. They drifted to and fro in the wind, and as they stroked the ground centimetres in front of the guard's feet, the man took a surreptitious step back.

However, his voice was calm and steady. Decisive, even, as though he respected his Lady's law and order enough to still enforce it in the face of fear. "Her Lady cannot receive visitors immediately upon request," he intoned. Lorcan stifled a snarl. "But I can contact her and see if she'd wish to meet you as soon as possible."

Lorcan nodded. His throat bobbed, unseen by the guard, deep in the shadows of his hood. "Yes." He said distantly, as he felt his mind start to drift, as it had done far too often in these past few years - a drop in the ocean for him, a lifetime for her. He forced himself to speak politely: being aggressive towards her citizens would not be viewed as an act of peace. "That would be appreciated."

* * *

The small sitting room he was led to was a far cry from fancy, but nor was it a dump. The word to describe it would be. . . cosy, he presumed. A warm, cosy, friendly atmosphere for the cunning but loving Lady to meet her guests.

 _I have seen how little respect men have for anything they think they are entitled to._

He hoped that although his faith in the goodness of others had been long destroyed, hers had somehow been repaired by her court of dreamers, that had once promised to remake the world. He hoped that this kindness and goodwill she'd exhibited, was perhaps not an act of faith, but a way of her actively seeking that goodness. A way of knowing that unlike her, those victims who never stopped being beaten had someone to turn to, a place of refuge to stay in.

Once, the thought would have made him sick. Now a hole in his heart that once held his withered conscience ached profusely.

He had been led in here by the guard once the man had returned, stating that the Lady of Perranth would see him soon, and until then he was to wait here. Two other guards had stripped his of his cloak, and rifled through his clothes. They'd not even blinked at his pointed ears, and inhuman countenance, instead thoroughly and methodically stripping him of anything that could hurt their Lady.

Of course they didn't. These were palace guards - and they were in Terrasen. These men had had ten years to get used to having a Fae king, and to see the long hidden Fae of this continent slowly but surely come out of hiding. Of course they didn't blink at him.

Somehow, he had forgotten just how fast the world could change.

His heart started beating a hateful tattoo as he heard the unmistakable clacking of footsteps down the hall. He looked up as the door swung open, and opened his mouth to say something-

But it wasn't Elide who stepped through the door.

Instead, it was the Fire Breathing Bitch Queen of Terrasen herself, whose gold-rimmed eyes sparked at the sight of him amongst all the finery. What had seemed cosy before suddenly seemed. . . different. So human and petty and breakable, especially in the same room as Aelin of the Wildfire and the most powerful Fae male known in existence. All these trinkets would shatter like falling rain, all these cloths and fabrics would burn like finely chopped matchsticks.

She clicked her tongue and drawled, "Considering I haven't found you trying to kill me in the past ten years, and that no one knows I'm here and not in Orynth, I'm going to presume you're here for her."

Neither of them needed to confirm who _her_ was.

Lorcan didn't say anything, knowing that she didn't expect a response. Instead he took the chance to study the queen, admittedly curious over whether the rumours of her Settling were true or not.

Aelin's face still had that same wicked temperament to it that it had ten years ago, when she was just a nineteen year old assassin trying to rally an army. That crackling energy had never quite faded either, and it was still enough to make anyone nervous about dealing with her, wondering if she'd use them as fresh kindling. But Lorcan could never quite get out of his head the image of her from when they'd finally dragged her out of Maeve's stronghold: bloody, defeated, and so exhausted her very figure seemed bowed. She still sparked and burned like a raging wildfire, but. . . There was control there. There'd been control before, keeping a leash on the inferno of bitterness and anger at the world, but there was a tighter one here. And still she strained desperately against it.

Perhaps because now there was more bitterness and anger than the old leash could take, and Whitethorn and Gavriel's son had each ensured she didn't burn down the world.

But her face. . . It was older, there was no doubt about that. Well fed, and healthy, skin as golden as ever, body still lithe and movements still fluid. Even in her human form, she walked with a feline grace. Lorcan wasn't sure whether this meant she had stopped aging, or if her power just kept her sustained.

Aelin cocked her head, and it was only then that it occurred to Lorcan that she might be studying him too.

Foolish - foolish male, for letting his guard down like that.

But he had no more time for self loathing, for the bitch had opened her mouth again, and was speaking. "I think I'll leave you to it," she said, and didn't wait for a response before she was gone. her footsteps clacked just as loudly and determinedly as they had on the way in. Stupid - stupid for ever thinking the steps had been hers, stupid for thinking Elide could be that loud, that brash, that. . . assured. The girl he'd known had never left anything to chance, checking and double checking her pall of lies and deception.

Sure enough, softer footsteps came this time. He sniffed the air for a second, not wanting to take any chances, and something in him cried out at the scent. It had been ten years, but he would never forget it, nor the girl he'd known, and cared for enough to face Maeve again in order to keep her safe.

But the girl he'd known, and the woman who opened the door and went to stand in front of him, were two very different people.


	2. The Sort of Unflinching Steel

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. The extract at the start, the characters, and the world all belong to the amazing Sarah J. Maas.**

* * *

 _He'd been lucky._

 _The girl, it seemed, had been smart,_

 _He jogged into a stop, setting her down hard enough that she winced - winced and hopped on that bit of hurt ankle._

 _"Where are we going?" She said, swinging her pack to pull out her canteen. He waited for the tears and prayers and begging. She just unscrewed the cap of the leather-coated container and swigged deep. Then, to his surprise, offered him some._

 _Lorcan didn't take it. She merely drank again._

 _"We're going to the edge of the forest - to the Acanthus River."_

 _"Where - where are we?" The hesitation said enough: she'd calculated the risk of revealing how vulnerable she was with that question. . . and decided she was too desperate for the answer._

 _"What is your name?"_

 _"Marion." She held his gaze with the sort of unflinching steel that had him angling his head._

 _An answer for an answer. He said, "We're in the middle of Adarlan. You were about a days hike from the Avery River."_

 _Marion blinked. He wondered if she even knew that - or had considered how she'd cross the mighty body of water that had claimed ships captained by the most seasoned of men._

 _She said, "Are we running, or can I sit down for a moment?"_

 _He listened to the sounds of the forest for any hint of danger, then jerked his chin._

 _Marion sighed as she sat on the moss and roots. She surveyed him. "I thought all the Fae were dead. Even the demi-Fae."_

 _"I'm from Wendlyn. And you," he said, brows raising slightly, "are from Morath."_

 _"Not from._ Escaping _from."_

 _"Why - and how."_

 _Her narrowed eyes told him enough: she knew he still didn't believe her, not entirely, red blood or no. Yet she didn't answer, instead leaning over her legs to unlace a boot. Her fingers trembled a bit, but she got through the laces, yanking off the boot, removing the sock, and rolling up her leather pant leg to reveal-_

 _Shit. He'd seen plenty of ruined bodies in his day, had done plenty of ruining himself, but rarely were they left so untreated. Marion's leg was a mass of scar tissue and bone. And right above her misshapen ankle lay still healing wounds where shackles had undoubtably been._

 _She said quietly, "Allies of Morath are usually whole. Their dark magic could surely cure a cripple - and they surely would have no use for one."_

 _He sat on a fallen log a few feet away, taking off his own pack to rifle through it. "Tell me what you know of Morath," he said, then chucked her a tin of salve straight from Doranelle._

* * *

His saliva dried in his throat.

Elide was. . . changed. Her face was matured, her dark hair coiled in a neat cone at the back of her head. Though she looked regal, it was a different sort of regal to the intimidating countenance her queen sported. It was more. . . casual elegance, with her mouth naturally set in a slight frown, but with a smile that could light it up. She looked like the cosseted Lady of Perranth the world expected her to be, perhaps one who needed marriage for the security of her lands, or who needed guidance.

He knew, and was painfully aware of the fact, that it was a flawless mask.

And as his warrior eyes narrowed on her, he humoured himself and thought he could detect a few traces that showed the strong woman beneath. Cracks in the façade. But some part of him acknowledged that he was a warrior: he'd been bred and trained to be a general, and to be well versed in the tides of war. He was not used to the careful, subtle machinations of politics, nor the lies and deceit that came with it. Something he suspected she was very skilled at.

But all that charm, all that softness and goodness that had been so crucial for her court in winning allies, drained away from her face as she beheld him sitting in her parlour, like some sort of weed amongst a bed of daisies.

A ripple of shock passed over her features, and her scent shifted briefly, so fast he couldn't detect what it was, before she schooled her expression into careful nonchalance. She somehow managed to mute whatever emotions he could scent on her; whether this was a trick learnt from having many dealings with Fae courtiers, or just a way for her to control her emotions, he didn't know. But it was effective, and left only the barest remnants of them clinging to her scent.

Oh gods that _scent_. How could he have ever thought Aelin was her?

He growled, low, to himself, and mentally told himself to pull himself together.

All throughout his turmoil of thoughts, they hadn't broken eye contact.

Her pert mouth - the one he shamefully hadn't been able to stop staring at when her lips had been painted blood red, and she was dressed in that ridiculous fortune teller costume so many years ago - pressed into a thin line, and she made no attempt to hide the disdain written across her delicate features.

Why should she bother? She'd made it perfectly clear on that month long trek they'd made to Doranelle that she considered him less than human. Or half-human, at least.

But she must maintain some level of trust in him - or at least believe it wouldn't be to his advantage to attack her - as she turned to the guards lingering in the doorway, and dismissed them with a curt nod, and a charming smile. Lorcan gritted his teeth as the guard, a handsome young man a few years younger than Elide, nodded back, smiling fondly.

Then she turned to him, and the warmth in her dark eyes froze, until they were glittering chips of onyx.

"Care to take a seat?" She asked sweetly, but with a wiry undercurrent of anger that, for the first time in his immortal, demi-Fae existence, had him genuinely afraid of someone who was purely and wholly human.

He didn't let his mind dwell on that fact as he sat. The cushion of the armchair, embroidered in a swirling floral pattern of green and silver, the colours of Terrasen, sunk under his mass of muscle and bone, and he gritted his teeth against the immense feeling that he was about to break something, whether it be the chair, or someone's limb.

The disapproving pinch to her lips told him she knew perfectly well what he was thinking. He scowled.

"Elide," he said, and the sound of her name on his lips after ten years was a foreign feeling. He hadn't had the chance to get used to saying it after he'd found out that she was in fact _not_ called Marion - not before everything had gone to shit. And on that trip with Rowan and Gavriel to find her bitch queen, he'd barely spoken at all, and certainly hadn't had the chance to speak to her alone.

And now. . .

Her lips had tightened until the painted bow resembled a small rose. Lorcan remembered that time, moments before the ilken attack on the carnival they'd been travelling with, when she'd been dressed in her ridiculous oracle's outfit, and he hadn't been able to stop staring. Then the ilken had attacked, and he'd chosen to view it as a message from Hellas, telling him to get his mind out of the gutter.

His mouth was as parched as it had been then.

Her voice was soft but steely as she said, "What do you want."

He swallowed again, before deciding that the best course of action would be to meet steel with steel. He bit right back, "I've grown tired of wandering the world these past few years. Now Maeve's dead, I have no purpose, nothing to run from, nothing to fight for." He didn't allow himself a moment to analyse her slightly widened eyes, or that flicker of change in her scent, before barrelling on. "And since I recalled your generous offer of hospitality from so long ago, I figured I might as well come here and see what you and your fire-breathing bitch queen have been up to these past ten years."

Her words were those of a lady, whose word should not be questioned, when she said, "That offer of hospitality is no longer extended."

He smiled then, a cunning little smile he'd picked up from Aelin Fire-Bringer, from Maeve, and all the other confident swaggering rulers who'd ever had the upper hand, and known it. He tried not to let his desperation leak into his voice as he said, "Ah, but you see, as far as I remember you said that I could turn up on your doorstep in ten years, and the offer would still stand." He spread his arms, gesturing around the room, at himself, at Elide. Her head was cocked, her narrowed gaze calculating. And though he knew that that very calculating gaze could be the end of him, a part of him was gleeful that she didn't bother to put up to charming façade for him. "And here we are, ten years later."

She pinches her lips further, and that minuscule tightening is the only thing that betrays her discomfort. "I did say that."

"You did. Are you going the renege on that promise now?"

Her brows were creased as she said, "Why shouldn't I? You screwed up, and got my queen kidnapped. Even after we got her out, she's never been the same. As far as I'm concerned, I have no obligation to help you, not now, not ever."

Fury shot through him, hot and staggering in its intensity, and he wasn't quite sure what he was doing as he propelled himself to his feet and stepped towards her, to do what, he didn't know.

But he froze as he felt a stinging, and hot blood met cold steel at his throat. He glanced down to see the light gleaming off of a blade pressed against his brown skin. His eyes followed the blade up, to where it had been ejaculated from the cuff of Elide's lace clad wrist. His trailed his eyes up and down her frame, unable to stop them from lingering in some places, and raises an eyebrow when he noticed various pockets where knives and weapons of defence had been hidden amongst the deep blue folds of her silk and chiffon dress.

He let out a sound that was half disbelieving gasp, half strangled laugh. "I should've known your bitch queen would have taught you a few tricks." Indeed, Aelin would never let anyone in her court go without the lessons and skills they would all need to survive in their war torn world.

"Did you really think the Lady of Perranth would walk into a room unguarded to meet with a notorious killer?" She dug it in further and hissed. "Did you expect me to still be a little girl? You _do_ so love to think of me as helpless, in need to protecting. No threat to anyone."

He swallowed, and as his throat bobbed more blood seeped from beneath the knife. He could use his magic to remove the blade from his throat, but he had a feeling that Hellas, the dark god from which he got his power, wouldn't allow him. Elide was blessed by Anneith, Hellas's consort. Lorcan got the sense he couldn't try to pit them against one another.

"What's the _real_ reason you don't want me staying here?" He got out through gritted teeth. "Is it just spite after my actions so many years ago?"

"I'm sure those years were the blink of an eye to you." Her face is unyielding, and he knew no sly argument was going to change her mind.

So he let that mask of cold amusement slip for half a moment as he said. "Let me stay here, if only for a few months." A beat of silence, then, "Please."

The word reverberated in the air between them, and he could feel Elide's shock.

Her face was guarded as she studied him, brow creased and head tilted. Then she lifted the blade from his neck.

He stepped back, already feeling his natural healing magic beginning to stitch the incision back together.

Her tone was imperious as she said, "Fine. You can stay. But for three months, then we'll review whether you're actually useful, or if you'll just be a burden on the household."

He didn't dared question it, or ask what he changed her mind. He just nodded in affirmation.

He remained frozen as she walked to the door. Before she exited, she turned to him, and her face was. . . softer. She didn't smile, but there was a considerable softness to it as she said, "Are you coming? Or do you want me to send a servant to deal with you?"

Slightly dazed, he followed after her.

* * *

 **I'm very sorry if anyone seems OOC. I tried to keep hem as accurate to their character as I could possibly make it, but I'm not sure how well I did.**

 **What did you think? Review?**


	3. A Whisper Of Pain

_A broad hand clamped on her shoulder, whirling her around._

 _She drew her dagger, but too slowly. The same hand released her to slap the blade to the grass._

 _Elide found herself staring into the dirt-splattered face of the man from the stream. No, not dirt. Blood that reeked - black blood._

 _"How?" she said, stumbling away a step._

 _"You first," he snarled, but whipped his head toward the forest behind them. She followed his gaze. Saw nothing._

 _When she looked at his harsh face, a sword lay against her throat._

 _She tried to fall back, but he gripped her arm, holding her as steel bit into her skin. "Why do you smell of one of them? Why do they chase you?"_

 _She'd pocketed the stone, or else she might have shown him. But movement might cause him to strike - and that small voice whispered to keep the stone concealed._

 _She offered another truth. "Because I have spent the past several months in Morath, living amongst that scent. They seek me because I managed to get free. I flee north - to safety."_

 _Faster than she could see, he lowered his blade - only to slice it across her arm. A scratch, barely more than a whisper of pain._

 _They both watched as her red blood surged and dribbled._

 _It seemed answer enough for him._

 _"You can call me Lorcan," he said, though she hadn't asked. And with that, he hauled her over his broad shoulder like a sack of potatoes and ran._

* * *

Elide led him up a few staircases, and Lorcan took the fairly long walk as a chance to marvel as how effectively that healer Captain Westfall had brought back from the Southern Continent - Yrene or something - had fixed up her leg. He'd met the girl for a brief moment when they'd returned with the Bitch Queen, and he'd seen the woman's honey gold eyes slide up and down Elide's ankle, hands already out and shimmering with her water magic.

Whether or not Elide was used to the feeling of walking straight and sure yet, she didn't show a thing.

It was on his lips to ask where they were going, but Lorcan knew when to push, and when to take what he could get. So he kept his lips pressed tightly together and surveyed the castle as she ascended the stairs. He took note of the simple but polished banisters, the freshly painted spots on the wall where the colour scheme didn't quite fit with the rest of the corridor, and the carpet, or lack thereof, with only gleaming floorboards on the path ahead of them. Elide glided over them without so much as a sound - so different from the girl he'd first me who'd crashed through the undergrowth with the inelegance of a startled fish. He suspected her Bitch Queen and that Crochan-Ironteeth Witch had taught her something about stealth as well.

Finally, Elide made a beeline for a single room. As they neared it, Lorcan's Fae hearing began to pick up the clink of cutlery and the murmur of voices to low to hear or recognise. He frowned infinitesimally. From this distance, he should be able to pick up even hushed whispers with enough clarity to distinguish the individual words. Unless-

Unless they were being spoken by voices used to warding against Fae and humans alike. Unless they were being spoken within a chamber designed to distort the sounds.

It turned out to be both, as Elide swept up to the door, basic and uniform, just like all the doors on this floor, and knocked twice. The knocks were forceful, assured, and even Lorcan heard the "Come in" that echoed out. Why would the Lady of Perranth be given order in her own home?

When they stepped inside, Lorcan scolded himself for being so dense. He already knew Aelin of the Wildfire was here. He should have been able to guess that it was her orders Elide had hastened to obey.

He had, however, not been prepared for the presence of the entire Bitch Queen's court standing around a single table.

Whitethorn stood to her right, and Gavriel's son to her left. Between the two broad shouldered males Aelin looked small and slight, even if she was roughly the same height as her cousin. Whitethorn's arms were crossed, his green eyes narrowed at Lorcan and Lorcan alone, letting Elide in without question. He'd positioned himself slightly in front of his wife on instinct, and even though he knew it, even though he'd known it for ten years, that bond between the two of them smacked Lorcan in the face: their scents, intertwined in a way that meant only one thing. _Mates._

Gavriel's son - Aedion, was it? - was openly glaring at him. Next to him, standing close enough to betray the idea of the bond between them, if the woman's hairstyle and the twin silver bands on their fingers wasn't enough to, was the shifter. Her green eyes held the same wicked amusement as her queen's, and that ebony hair fell to her collar bone, making the arches of her cheekbones all the more sophisticated. Lorcan knew the look she gave him, even as she purred a mocking "Welcome"; knew it as well as he knew his sword. The glance of a predator sizing up its prey, and depending on whatever form she chose to take, that analogy might not be too far off the mark.

Aelin smiled at Elide with a genuine warmth, then smirked at Lorcan in a way that made his blood boil. "So how'd you win her over in the end?" Lorcan loosed a growl.

Rowan frowned, sensing the cataclysmic battle about to occur between two of the most powerful demi-Fae in existence. "Aelin, let's get on with it. We didn't come all this way for nothing."

"Right." Aelin's gaze flicked down to the table they all stood around, and she trailed a finger along the map of Erilea plastered there. "Aedion, where did you say they'd set up camp?" Her cousin reached over with a pen in hand to mark several areas: a spot in the western most Anascaul Mountains near Wolf Tribe, a spot near the edge of Oakwald Forest, halfway between Orynth and Perranth, and another spot down in Adarlan, amongst the Mountains of Ararat.

"These are the main bases," Gavriel's son began to explain, "and then there are countless others out there. Remember when Ansel wrote to us about people she suspected lived in the Jungle of Morla coming down to place random attacks on the Wastes? And then you know about the uprising's Dorian's had to face in Morath, the city near Endovier-" Lorcan knew he wasn't imagining the Bitch Queen's shudder "-and Rifthold itself."

Aelin nodded, then marked the places he listed on the map. "Nothing in Eyllwe, Melisande, or Fenharrow?" She asked, and the look on her face was wickedly calculating in a way that might have terrified a lesser male.

"Eyllwe hasn't faced resistance since the King of Eyllwe originally got his throne back." Aedion answered. "Fenharrow were hit too hard by the war to either be a worthy target for power hungry rebels, or to be able to fight off an attack if there was one. The Deserted Peninsula bows to no single ruler, but since Xandria became an international trade city, there have been few attacks. It's a small province, and would take a great deal of military might to either conquer it by land or sea. And, well, you know how tenuous relationships with Melisande have been since-" _Since you ordered Ansel to sack their capital city, and she humiliated their queen_ , was what Aedion didn't need to say.

"Ilias wrote to me to comment that someone had been tampering with the waters of the Oasis of Barg," Aelin started to say, naming the son of the Mute Master of the Silent Assassins, then trailed off into thought.

Rowan cut in then, always watching, always calculating. The shifter seemed restless, paying ardent attention, but fidgeting in her seat. "The expanse of the attacks suggest the movement isn't coordinated, or they wouldn't waste males and resources spreading their effect across kingdoms. They'd focus all their energy on actually being able to capture one city. I'd be willing to bet they were all unconnected, were it not for the fact that they're so similar, and done in such a short time. Almost as if they've been travelling around, and these bases we found are just supply camps. It would explain why we've all been unable to catch them; by the time we've doused whatever fire they've set, they're gone."

An interesting choice of words, Lorcan thought, but knew enough not to say.

"Almost like a-" Aelin mused, then froze. She looked up to meet each of their eyes in turn, then looked at Elide as she finished, "Travelling circus."

Elide answered carefully, sweeping an eye over the map. "It would make sense, if the rebels are comprised of the remnants of Morath's armies, stray Ironteeth witches, humans inhabited by the Valg, and such, that they were either hiding in travelling circuses, or posing as them, so they can travel from place to place without seeming suspicious. And even if the correlation is only vague, they would just need to travel near enough to the targeted town for them to dispatch a few people to wreak the necessary havoc, say, they could travel to Ilium and send someone to Eldrys without it interfering with their course. That way no one could point fingers at them."

Aelin nodded her agreement, even as Lorcan wondered when Elide had gotten a mind for strategy. Then he chided himself, remembering how she'd been able to discern where her queen was headed through mere rumours, and what had happened the last time he'd presumed her to be a little girl.

Aelin glanced at him, and asked, voice a little sharper than before, "Anything to add?"

And then he knew why she'd agreed for him to be there: to take advantage of his mind.

He ignored it. As much as he tried to deny it, he'd missed the sense of having a purpose these past ten years, missed being involved in the rise and fall of kingdoms. So he said, "It definitely makes sense. It looks like there'd be two separate carnivals doing this, perhaps each coordinating with the other: One in the West, attacking Briarcliff, and polluting the Oasis of Barg to whatever end serves them. They would be the ones using the supply base in the west of the Anascaul Mountains. If this is true, then I expect Xandria will be the next target for them."

He trailed his finger down the map, and over to the point depicted at the edge of Oakwald, near Orynth. "And then one in the East, travelling over the plains of Fenharrow, Adarlan, and Terrasen." He pointed at the countries as he said them. "It would make sense to bypass Eyllwe, as it's dangerous to spend too long there in the height of summer, and also because after the events of the war, starting a rebellion in Eyllwe is a sure death sentence.

"Therefore, if we take Eyllwe out of the equation, the one place on the continent where the two circuses could potentially meet, with reliable passes to both the eastern countries, the Deserted Peninsula, and the Wastes, is-" He locked eyes with Whitethorn. "Melisande."

"That's also where the majority of carnival trinkets are created," the shifter observed quietly. "Smoke, mirrors, clockwork parts, the likes."

Aedion nodded. "Indeed."

Aelin looked at the map spread before her, then went to roll it back into a cylinder. "I'll send word to Suria, Ilium, Rosamel, and Allsbrook to keep an eye out for any travelling circuses. Even if these are only two of hundreds. They probably won't listen, but it's best for them to be prepared."

"Best for you to be able to say 'I told you so', rather than them complaining about their lack of information, you mean," Elide stated softly.

A curt jerk of the chin was all the reply she got for a moment. Then Aelin smiled a bitter smile and said, "Even after ten years, Sloane, Ironwood, and Gunnar have something against me."

"What about the rest?" Elide asked.

Aelin shrugged, but there was nothing casual in the gesture. "Darrow was born pissed off, Sol seems to think I'm a wee bit hot headed, and Rolfe just doesn't like following orders. I'm pretty sure Ren still holds a grudge that I bested him in a fight, too, especially after Murtaugh died and he was forced to take up the mantle as Lord of Allsbrook. Bitterness."

Lorcan was suddenly staring at the Bitch Queen, and he wasn't quite sure what he was thinking as he said, "What actually happened the night you died?"

The effect of those words on her court was incredible. Rowan's hand flew to the small of her back, the shifter's green eyes became shuttered, as she went to touch the stamped out brand on her wrist in an unconscious gesture, and Gavriel's son tensed up significantly.

Aelin, however, drawled, "Which time?" When he didn't answer, she gave another bitter laugh. "I died. Hellas decided I was more trouble than I was worth, and sent me packing." Lorcan just raised an eyebrow, feeling a little offended that she didn't think his patron god could handle her. She sighed, and admitted, rubbing her arm, "I went into. . . _that place_ , and then managed to come out. I don't know how."

Lorcan was tempted to ask what she'd seen there. But he knew better than to push it right now, with a Fae and a demi-Fae male looking at him like they wanted to rip out his throat.

Aelin cleared her throat. "So. Travelling circuses. Rebel attacks. Melisande." She glanced up, and locked gazes with Elide. Hers softened considerably. "We need to know more about the welfare and state of that country. Could you do that for us?"

Elide didn't so much as flinch. "Of course."

It was a moment before it clicked with Lorcan what she'd been asked to do, then his blood ran cold.

He'd once thought that if Elide wasn't mortal, Maeve would have trained her to be her most ruthless and cunning spy. He'd never stopped to consider that Elide might adopt that role voluntarily to help out her queen.

Aelin's cutting glance slid to him. "You can go with her."

"What?"

Aelin didn't look away from his glare, and some distant part of him was impressed. "You can go with her. Accompany your darling Elide into the heart of Melisande. Be an official emissary. Kiss their asses. Do whatever you must, but _get us the information we need_."

He snarled at her. "You are not my queen."

"No," Elide said quietly, but there was enough force behind those words to make him back down. "But so long as you live in my castle, you are subject to our rule. Here is the chance to make yourself useful."

And Lorcan wondered whether they'd planned this all along, Elide and her queen. If Elide had always planned to go to Melisande to help foster better relations with them, even before more urgency was added, and had agreed to his request to stay here so he could accompany her. After all, what better protection was there than a Fae male?

So Lorcan lifted his chin, and snapped, "Fine. I'll do it."


	4. Life On The Road

**I cannot express how sorry I am for the late update. It's been... two months? I'm sorry. I'll try to stay on top from now on.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own the Throne of Glass franchise; it belongs to Sarah J. Maas.**

* * *

 _Nik met Lorcan's eyes, holding them for much longer than most men dared. Nik's smile faded a bit. "The land beyond the Fangs isn't kind, Your people must be hardy folk to live out there."_

 _Lorcan nodded. "A rougher life," he said, "than I would want for my wife."_

 _"Life on the road isn't much better," Nik countered._

 _"Ah," Marion chimed in, "but isn't it? A life of open skies and roads, of wandering where the wind takes you, answering to no one and nothing? A life of freedom. . ." She shook her head. "What more could I ask but to live a life unchecked by cages?"_

 _Lorcan knew the words were no lie. He had seen her face when they had beheld that grassy plain._

 _"Spoken like someone who has spent long enough on the road," Nik said. "It always goes either way with our kind: you either settle down, and never travel again, or wander forever."_

 _"I want to see life - see the world," Marion said. "I want to see everything."_

* * *

"Who would have thought," Elide observed quietly, but with the hint of a drawl that spoke of far too much time being spent around her bitch-queen, "that the most powerful demi-Fae in the world couldn't handle a short carriage ride without getting antsy?"

Lorcan turned to glare at her, and cringed back when she glared right back. He hated himself for letting the ten years since he'd last seen her addle his memory of just how _terrifying_ she could be. He clipped out, "It's hardly a 'short' carriage ride. It's been three hours already, and I doubt we're even out of Terrasen yet."

"Oh, we're out of Terrasen," Elide conversed casually, a slight smirk gracing her lips. She slouched back in her seat, the flurry of tulle that was her dress shifting with the movement, like receding waves. His eyes narrowed at her in suspicion as she informed him airily, "We're in Adarlan. We passed by the crossroads that would take us through Oakwald and into Endovier whilst you were asleep."

"You could tell?"

"Of course I could tell." Her eyes went temporarily unfocused, like she was looking into the past. "We were all there when Aelin tore the place down - with Dorian's permission of course."

How easily she referred to the King of Adarlan by his first name shot a pang of jealousy through Lorcan's gut, even though, logically, he knew that he had no need to be. The King was happily married with his Witch-Queen wife, who he knew was like an older sister figure to Elide. Originally, he'd even been a little jealous of _her_ , knowing that her relationship with Elide had the potential to tip either way, but now, he really had no reason to fear.

Elide continued her story, oblivious to his thoughts, "She obliterated the place. Nothing will grow there, she torched the earth so badly; the salt turned to ash where it stood. She tore down the walls brick by brick with her bare hands." She shuddered slightly, and though he was hit by the urge to protect her, he squashed it, knowing it would be appreciated. She folded her arms as she finished, "Only after it was done, and the road marked with fallen, scorched trees, did she return home. She allowed Rowan to fill in her tattoos again that night."

Because the tattoo had been positively shredded under Cairn's whip, and they'd been too busy with the war to afford the precious time needed to give back the honour to those the queen had worn it for.

Elide's eyes were still far too haunted for his liking, so he commented on the other thing about her statement that beggared belief in an attempt to distract her. "I didn't fall asleep."

She rolled her eyes. "You were snoring," she said flatly. "Don't deny it." She extracted her hands from the mess of fabric covering her thighs, and reached over to flick his nose. "Has the decade of peace made you go soft?"

Lorcan debated catching her wrist as she pulled her hand back and just holding it, but even whilst the idea warred in his mind, common sense won out. "Perhaps," he admitted, relaxing from his ramrod straight posture into the backrest behind him.

It wasn't something he liked to think about. He knew the drastic changes that humans went through over the years, and now his monarch was dead, and he'd lost all real sense of purpose in his life, he'd spent the past few years just. . . wandering. Around Wendlyn. Doranelle, too, though he'd swiftly left once he realised what a mess the place was in the wake of Maeve's death, with various branches of Mora's and Mab's bloodlines raging about claiming the vacated throne. Lorcan knew that if he ever wanted to return, it would be at least one hundred years in the future, when he was certain things had settled down. There was no way he wanted to be roped into that bloodbath, as Maeve's dishonoured blood sworn.

Idly, he wondered whether Aelin or Rowan - both of whom had firm ancestral ties to his dead queen, and therefore a reasonable claim to the throne - would bother trying to intervene.

But, he had to admit, in the meantime of the past decade he'd been just. . . wandering. The Southern Continent was beautiful, as were the lands far east of Wendlyn, so far east that if you crossed a sea you would reach Erilea again. He'd travelled five months overseas to an island where the inhabitants lived underground, to an archipelago where they worshipped dryads and nymphs and stars instead of gods, to a country of marshlands, where he'd been once before, and a city suspended on canals between two mountains, whose name he had almost forgotten.

"I suppose," he mused aloud. Elide jumped; had he been silent for that long? "I suppose that I've gotten used to most people not trying to kill me."

"What are you doing back in Erilea, then?" She inquired. "Was it really something you missed?"

 _You were the thing I missed_ , were the words that rose to his lips at first. He wanted to admit that every time he'd seen a new monarch, or government system - he'd even seen a land where the people _voted_ for their leaders - he'd wondered what she would think. What facts she would deduce from the lies and pretty words they'd spun him with, how her face would light up when she saw the great rolling plains, the spectacular sunsets, the towering mountains.

 _I want to see everything_ , she'd once told him. And now she was Lady of Perranth, she would never get the chance. He wondered if she resented it.

But he said none of this. Instead he raised an eyebrow, and said with enough care that a shrewd woman such as Elide would instantly know something was wrong, "When you're born to be an immortal warrior, you find that the novelty of a peaceful kingdom grows old fairly quickly."

"But, why here?" She pressed. "Why not go back to Doranelle? I here there's quite the war going on over there, what with Maeve's passing. I'm sure they would be highly grateful for your input."

"Too messy for me. I'm not a courtier." He narrowed his eyes at her. "Why haven't your beloved Queen and Consort intervened, yet? They have as much claim to the throne as anyone else."

"Aelin's reasons are her own."

"Such a good little royal possession."

"I'm _not_ a possession." Lorcan cursed his foolishness as Elide's eyes flashed. "I've told you this before. I am _not_ something to be bought or owned. Aelin won my loyalty and trust through blood and sweat and tears, and by fighting to protect me and mine for years. So I'd highly appreciate it, _Lorcan_ , if you kept your inane and spiteful observations to yourself, as they're no use to anyone else, and keep your judgemental arse out of my queen's business!"

"Arse?" He laughed. "Are ladies allowed to use such language?"

Her eyes flashed again, and her hands balled into fists, but before she could open her mouth to retort there was a panicked shout from outside.

Lorcan reacted instantaneously, though his basic thought process was scratchy, like he had to ascertain whether what he was doing was right before he did it. He resented the rust that coated his movements; it had been far too long since someone had attacked him.

His magic rushed out of him in a wave. Elide, to her credit, did not flinch as that wave of death washed over her, but it skittered along the steel shortswords of the attacking grunts, and wrapped around the attackers themselves, measuring their weight, posture, and battle stances. It bathed in the blood already spilt from the throats of the guards. And finally, it swept back in ready for attack.

"Stay here, Marion," he barked, then he had kicked the door open, weapons drawn, and leapt out before either of them could comment on his mistake.

He took in the scene in a rush. There were perhaps five men - mercenaries? ex-soldiers? - fighting with the two men they'd had with them on the trip. They hadn't brought more, for fear that anymore would insinuate that they thought Elide may face attacks from Melisande's court. (They did think that, but that was beside the point.) Besides, a Fae male was really all the protection anyone would need. Especially if it was Lorcan.

Three of the five men were dead before they could turn to look at him. One of them skirted round the carriage from where they'd gone to kill the driver with blood streaming down their arm, so Lorcan presumed that hadn't gone down well. The man _had_ been chosen for his proficiency in a fight. He flicked his wrist and the pocket sized knife that had appeared in his hand lodged in the man's throat.

The last man dropped his weapons and turned to flee, but Lorcan was in front of him in a heartbeat and had a knife pressed to his jugular. The man froze.

"Who are you." It was more of a command to talk than a question, and Lorcan clasped the man's upper arm in his left hand, loosening the pressure of the knife ever so slightly. Just enough to let him talk without slitting his throat. He remembered holding the Bitch-Queen like this once, revelling in her sudden silence, and the look of terror on Whitethorn's face. Only now, when he tried to summon the image, he saw Elide's face as he'd been forced to hold her as she watched her queen bargain with his queen for Elide's freedom. It made him feel sick.

The man swallowed. His eyes were watery and bloodshot, and his throat bobbed consistently. His fear was a stench that clogged up Lorcan's nose. "We were sent to kill the lady."

"I didn't ask what you were doing. That much was obvious. I asked who you are."

"We're- we _were_ merchants. Brothers. The job's gone back generations. And _she_ killed our father for doing nothing wrong. She killed him in the small river town where we grew up, stole his barge and never looked back. We found his body when it floated back into town." His eyes hardened. "So now we're going to kill her."

 _There's no 'we' left_ , he wanted to croon. But he said nothing.

Because Lorcan remembered the man, scrawny and slight, who'd come barrelling onto their escape barge with a drawn knife to gut those who dared steal his boat. They'd been in a hurry, Nik and Ombriel having alerted the town garrison about their presence, and he'd been all for killing the man to get out of there before Elide had stepped up and reasoned with him.

Elide had promised him safety. Elide had mourned him. Elide hadn't spoken to him for three days after Lorcan had killed him.

And they thought _she_ had done it?

"My oldest brother - Mark - he was trading in Perranth when he saw her." The man was babbling now, apparently excited that he thought whatever he'd seen in Lorcan's face was horror. "And he recognised her as the little bitch who'd been gossiping about the Queen of Terrasen in the tavern before the guards. And when we heard that she was travelling to Melisande for diplomatic reasons, we knew that we had our chance."

The man sucked in a breath as Lorcan pressed the knife deeper against his throat, until a dribble of blood spilt down his neck. "Perhaps you should get your facts straight before you go around getting yourself killed. Elide didn't kill your father. In fact, she was stoically _against_ the killing of your father." He leaned in, until his lips were almost on the shell of the man's ear. "I killed him."

He pulled back, and met the man's eyes, now doubly afraid once he'd seen the anger in Lorcan's face. "And I'd do it again. Because we were in a _war_ , and sparing your father's life would've meant handing the demons that once roamed the earth - the demons that Elide's queen banished - the key to our destruction. And so I think maybe you should decide which you would value more. Your father? Or the lives of every single surviving family member you ha-."

"Lorcan." Snapped a voice behind him. "Let him go."

And Elide disobeyed his request to stay safe in the carriage and bunched up her skirt and stepped into the sunlight. She walked towards the man with a certainty in her step that made Lorcan wonder just how many people trying to kill her she'd endured since she became Lady of Perranth.

She stopped beside Lorcan, quite a bit shorter than him, and seeming so frail and delicate. But then she said, "What's your name?"

His voice trembled. "Tomas, Lady Elide."

"Well, Tomas," she said, and her voice wasn't soft, but it was reasonable, and hard to argue with. The voice of a courtier used to diplomacy. "I'm not going to kill you. Lorcan won't kill you. And I'm not going to expect you to stop hating me for your father's death, nor understand why he died. Perhaps you have to be destitute and desperate to understand that. But I'm going to ask you to leave, and carry your dead back to your home, and mourn them properly, rather than participating in any other suicide missions for the time being." She clenched her jaw. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, Lady."

Without another word, she turned around, and got into the carriage. Lorcan followed. The driver, a bit shaken, got the horses moving.

Lorcan took the moment to observe the young lady before him. Her hands were still scrunched into fists, he suspected to hide the trembling. She worried at her lower lip, and her brow creased.

She'd changed. He hadn't seen it quite so much before, but she'd changed. They all had.

Her queen, whose interactions with those bent on antagonising her always seemed tinged with an unrivalled hatefulness. Whitethorn, whose eyes flicked to his mate whenever something worrying came up, like he was terrified she'd snap. Gavriel's son, whose overall demeanour was stonier now. The shifter, whose blithe smiles and countenance had lost the nerve that spurred her to vomit all over him, once. Twice.

And Elide, whose resolve no longer wavered, who had her morals, but the line between right and wrong had shifted a bit, who still harboured a genuine love for the world, but tried to show it through a firm hand. Through not unleashing the bitterness he saw in her when that man had turned his gaze on her, bright with hatred.

She looked up then, and caught his eye. She gave him a weak smile.

It broke something in him.

"Did you know," he began slowly, "that there is a city several lands away, which sits on a network of canals? The barges bob around it like carriages on a street. It sits in the valley between two mountains, which they call the Twin Giants, or the equivalent of it in their language, and they're the tallest ones I've seen in many an age. . ."

And so the silence of the carriage was filled with the lilt of his voice, as he described the many wonders he had seen in the past decade, and the rest of the journey passed in a blur.


	5. No Choice But To Yield

**I don't know anything about Melisande's climate or geology or geography or anything, so I'm just making it up as I go along, guessing by its closeness to other countries.**

 **I'm sorry if Lorcan seems a bit OOC in this one, though.**

* * *

 _Ansel strolled to Aelin and linked her arm through her elbow. She smirked like a fiend. "I assume you lot know how bossy Her Majesty is. But I followed the instructions. I brought the other half of my army when I veered down south, and we hiked through the White Fangs and into Melisande. It's queen assumed we arrived to offer aid. She let us right in the front gates."_

 _Rowan held his breath._

 _Ansel let out a sharp whistle and, on the nearest ship, clopping and nickering sounded._

 _And then an Asterion horse emerged from the stables._

 _The horse was a storm made flesh._

 _Rowan couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Aelin beam with pure delight as she breathed, "Kasida."_

 _"Do you know," Ansel went on, "that I rather enjoy pillaging? With Melisande's troops spread so thin for Morath, she really had no choice but to yield. Though she was particularly furious to see me claim the horse - made worse when I took her out of her dungeon to reveal that Terrasen's flag now flies alongside my wolf at her own damn house."_

 _"What," Dorian blurted._

 _Aelin and Ansel faced him, brows high. Dorian staggered forwards a step at Ansel's words, and the Queen of the Wastes gave him a look that said she'd like to pillage_ him.

 _Ansel gestured to the ships around them with a broad sweep of her arm. "Melisande's fleet is now our fleet. And it's capital is ours, too." She jerked her chin at Aelin. "You're welcome."_

 _Manon Blackbeak burst out laughing._

* * *

Melisande's castle was a grand but foreboding thing, like a lithe and oddly beautiful but terrifying grey goblin squatting in the centre of a sprawling city. It was built around a hill, and was composed of stone arches that leapt up the side of the slope like someone had tracked the progress of a frog. Elide eyed the soaring towers with a shudder. She did not want to be housed in one of them for the next few months, if she could help it.

Their carriage crawled up the hill at a snail's pace thanks to the array of guards that surrounded the castle and insisted on accompanying that one lonely vehicle into the heart of their queen's home. Elide had to admire their loyalty; it reminded her of some of the more extreme patriots back home in Perranth.

When they were finally bid to enter, Elide hiked up her skirts and stepped out carefully, stumbling slightly in the short heels she'd been forced to don for this mission. The sky was overcast and cloudy, though the infamous humidity that came from being just north of the Eyllwe marshlands bogged down her arms, and almost immediately she began to sweat. Her ankle gave a sharp twinge at the wet weather; she gritted her teeth. Yrene had done the best she could on it, and still occasionally sent healers from her home in the Torre Cesme to check on her, but there was only so much she could do after years of damage. Elide could walk straight now, sometimes, but just as often it gave aches that were impossible to ignore.

She ignored it nevertheless; instead giving Lorcan a firm glance warning him to behave and urging him to stay close. As they passed under the first archway and out of the light drizzle of rain, she gladly gave her coat to the man standing instead, and swept a critical eye over him. He wore the simple but smart uniform of a butler, and it was well pressed, with an auspicious lack of creases. It looked unnatural.

 _So_ , Elide thought to herself, letting a polite smile play about her lips as she thanked him. _They're looking to make a good impression. Seem sophisticated._

Whether they were, she would reserve judgement on.

She felt Lorcan's gaze on her back, sharp and calculating, but she paid it no heed as she started forward, letting the soft clacking of her heels coincide with the swishing of her dress on stone. She couldn't afford to think about him right now, not when so much was at stake, not when they was so much unresolved between them. She couldn't muse about his openness in the carriage as he recounted the tales of his life, nor that ferocious look in his eye as he dived outside, knife already in hand-

The butler caught up to her when she passed through a set of double doors. The doors weren't as ornate as the rest of the castle seemed to be, and indeed seemed to have been assembled in haste, not without care, but enough so that the edges were a little too rough, a little too crudely done.

Of course, she knew where the destruction had come from, and where the original masterpiece double doors had likely gone. Ansel had really enjoyed her pillaging, hadn't she?

The corridor was dimly lit by a skylight dozens of feet above their heads, so Elide couldn't see much more about the craftsmanship of the room, but she suspected there were equally patched up places all over the castle, ones hastily arranged in the early stages of rebuilding and that Melisande hadn't had the time or money to go back and fix since.

It was likely the latter, Elide mused; after all, Melisande had been almost shunned by Adarlan and the other countries since the war with Erawan, and how they'd sided with the demons. Trade had been limited, and had only been reopened two years before, when Dorian had been feeling particularly merciful. Elide suspected that his gesture of goodwill had only stirred up more resentment amongst the countrymen; after all, who wanted to admit that their entire success was built on the generosity of others?

As they walked down another corridor, then to another set of double doors, Elide absently noted several more places where the repairs work had been shoddy, but then she straightened up, brushed some imaginary lint off her dress, and shot Lorcan a final warning look to keep his mouth shut, before she waltzed into the throne room, and curtsied without looking at the queen seated at its head.

The throne room in Orynth was a large, desolate room, which had slowly regained its former grandeur over the years when Aelin had scrimped together the money to refurbish it. The antler throne was rebuilt and good as new, and whenever Elide visited, Aelin was a sight of splendour to see, with her antler crown and imperial stature and scorching smile. It was equal parts awe-inspiring and intimidating.

The throne room of Melisande, however, was a little different.

The throne was carved of dark, dark stone - the same stone, Elide remembered with a shudder, that was mined in the mountains Morath squatted in. Of course; the mountain range ran into Melisande as well, and was their main defence against attacks from Fenharrow in the west. The queen who sat upon it had sharp eyes and a waterfall of dark hair that fell around her waist. Her lips were pursed, gaze as hot and heavy as her country's climate, and there were no courtiers in the room.

Almost as though they're taking no chances with offending the convoys from the north, Elide thought to herself.

When the queen spoke, her voice was soft but firm - completely at odds with her domineering appearance. "Arise." Elide did so, and lifted her chin to meet the queen's eye. "Lady Elide Lochan of Perranth," the woman mused, then her eyes slid to Lorcan. "And her escort."

 _See see see_ , whispered a voice at her shoulder. Elide fought very hard not to keep from crying out in shock. Anneith hadn't spoken to her in over five years, and eventually she'd stopped hoping for the goddess's guidance, content with the occasional assuring feeling emanating from the presence that had once dogged her footsteps. That, above all, had been what had told Elide that she was doing _well_ in her job as a lady. So why was Anneith returning now?

 _See see see._

 _See_ what?

The queen's eyes cut to her again and she smiled, like she knew what panic was running through Elide's head. And then Elide saw it.

The flickering gaze, the expressionless face, the deathly still posture. The deadly way of looking, and seeing.

This woman was Elide's reflection.

The queen could see the way Elide and Lorcan stood, and no doubt have heard the rumours about the Fae male who'd protected the Lady of Perranth on the way to free Aelin, and had put two and two together. She could see the faint bloodstains on Lorcan's doublet that indicated they'd run into trouble on the way here. She could see the faint bulges of hidden weapons in Elide's sleeves and bodice. She could see everything.

Elide needed to even the playing field.

So she looked, and saw.

She saw a woman, despite her greatest efforts to hide it, desperate for an alliance that could pull her country back from the brink of disaster once and for all. She saw a woman who had let two emissaries from the nation that had sacked and humiliated her capital city into her home so she could pursue this cause. And she saw a woman who, despite risking offending a member of the court of the most powerful nation on this continent, looked far too happy to be all that she seemed.

Her posture was still, but relaxed. She believed she was in power.

Elide needed to know why.

Elide opened her mouth to make introductions, but before she could, the queen interrupted smoothly, "Oh let's not worry about any of that now. I know who you are, and you know who I am; it's my court you need to meet, as you'll be interacting with them for the next. . . month, was it?"

She nodded, slightly stiffly.

"Then why don't I have Renald show you to your temporary chambers for now, and then you can rest and freshen up before joining us for dinner? I'm sure you're exhausted from the journey, and the scuffle along the way."

"How did you know about that?" Lorcan said harshly, suddenly. Elide sliced him a terrifying glare, and he seemed to shrink back a bit, but the damage was done. Lorcan may have been trained for the battlefield, but she was beginning to regret bringing him into a court situation for which he was hopelessly unprepared.

To her credit, the queen just get a tight little spider's smile. "Why don't you ask your lady?" She jerked her chin at the butler. "You're dismissed. Take them to their rooms."

* * *

Their sleeping quarters were pleasant, and borderline luxurious - it _wasn't_ in a tower, thank goodness, though she was suspicious as to how they knew _not_ to put her in one - and Elide had to commend them for the thought put into the décor and accessories. Terrasen's colours of green and silver were present in subtle themes around the room, and paintings of snowy mountains and emerald forests made up most of the artwork on the walls. The soap in the bathroom was pine-scented, and even once Elide had bathed herself and dressed the smell chased her into the main room and clung to her clothes, like a second skin reminding her of home.

There were two rooms in the suite, connected immediately by a door in the wall, with locks on both sides, and also by a small living room that was simply an area in front of the door furnished with a few armchairs, a shelf of books, and a large window with a window seat that overlooked the city. Elide looked over the books quickly - ten years ago, reading had been the hardest part of her role as lady; today it was the easiest - and noted that they were all authors from Terrasen.

How perfectly put together the room was unnerved her, if only because she could see the sense in it, and that this was likely what she would have done had she had foreign dignitaries coming over to stay.

When she left the bathroom, she found Lorcan lying bored on her bed, staring out of the window, beyond which was a small balcony. He whipped his gaze to hers after a moment, and she pretended she didn't notice the faint pink flush to his cheeks as he took in her damp, curling hair, or the smell coming from the bathroom. "How _did_ the queen know about the attack?"

She sat down in the chair next to the bed and leaned back. "You have blood on your clothes. It's not that hard to guess."

He looked down, startled, though he surely must have smelt it on himself by now. "Oh."

She laughed a little at the faint bewilderment on his face, then leaned back in the chair and yawned, politely pressing the back of her hand to her mouth as she did so. Lorcan immediately stood from the bed, spouting, "Are you tired? I'm sure there's time for an afternoon nap before you're required to meet the nobility."

She shook her head. "No. I had enough sleep coming into the city. I missed the chance to see the outside of it."

He grunted. "There wasn't much to see. The only interesting parts of the scenery was where the houses had fallen in and appeared to have been torn into by great claws-"

"What?" A suspicion began to form in her mind. She marched over to the window-doors and after fiddling with the latch for a moment, opened them and stood on the balcony. She squinted, but she was on the top of a hill, and the city fell away from her, so she couldn't see the city edge.

Lorcan tentatively joined her on the balcony. She didn't know whether it was the proximity or an increase in humidity that caused sweat to rise on her skin the way it did. "You heard me. There were parts where shops and houses and walls on the outskirts lay in rubble, and some had been decimated completely by mini explosions, with the inhabitants scurrying around either trying to salvage what could be saved, or trying to rebuild what could be rebuilt."

"Witches." She breathed. "That must have been the work of witches, and their wyverns. The claw marks: the wyverns. The explosions: the Yielding. Manon-" She swallowed, and forced herself to remember the contents of that awful letter. "Manon wrote to me a few months ago about how she'd been forced to leave Rifthold to help Asterin and Sorrel to deal with the rogue witches that marched around destroying everything. She said that Crochan and Blackbeak witches alike have been kidnapped at random, only to turn up blown to smithereens because they'd used the Yielding on themselves in an attempt to escape their captors."

Lorcan swore. "So that means-"

"There's more." Her heart was beginning to race. The wind whipped her hair round her face as an especially strong, hot, dry breeze blew. Her head was whirring. "Aelin told me that the Queen of Melisande only agreed to this diplomatic mission because she heard it would be me on it. She's the most desperate monarch on the continent, who could solve all her problems by allying with Terrasen, but she still refused until she realised she would be talking to a woman with witch blood in her veins." She breathed the last part, like it was still a secret. "And she's been suffering attacks from witches on her capital city."

Lorcan had gone very, very still. "And that's not our only problem," he observed, and his voice had the hard edge of cruelty that had made him so easy to hate when she'd first met him. His eyes were fixed on something in the city below, and she tried to follow his gaze, but she couldn't discern what he was looking at amidst the tangle of streets.

"What?"

He pointed. "There. By the temple with the shrine, in the market square."

Elide's eyes hunted for whatever it was she was looking for, and she found a small throng of people exactly where he'd described. She could make out basic body shapes - a stout woman, a brown haired man, a dark haired woman, a few others - but she knew Lorcan's Fae eyesight was far better than hers, so she asked, "Who is it?"

Her stomach clenched when he said, "Molly, Nik, and Ombriel."


	6. Easy Silver Coin

_Lorcan's magic picked up on the garrison before he heard or scented them._

 _It slithered along their swords - rudimentary, half-rusted weapons - and then bathed in their rising fear, excitement, perhaps even a tinge of bloodlust._

 _Not good. Not when they were headed right to them._

 _Lorcan closed the distance to Elide. "It seems our friends at the carnival wanted to make an easy silver coin."_

 _The helpless desperation on her face sharpened into a wild-eyed alertness. "Guards are coming?"_

 _Lorcan nodded, the footsteps now close enough for him to count how many approached from the garrison in the heart of the town, no doubt meant to trap them between their swords and the river. It he were the betting sort, he'd gamble that the two bridges that spanned the river - ten blocks up on either side of them - were already full of guards._

 _"You get a choice," he said. "Either I can end this matter here and we can go back to the inn to see if Nik and Ombriel wanted to get rid of us. . ." Her mouth tightened and he knew her choice before he offered. "Or we can get on one of those barges and get the hell out right now."_

 _"The second," she breathed._

 _"Good," was his only reply as he gripped her hand and tugged her forward. Even with his power supporting her leg, he was too slow-_

 _"Just do it," she snapped._

 _So Lorcan hauled her over a shoulder, freeing his hatchet with his other hand, and ran for the water._

* * *

Elide opened her mouth, feeling her face drain of all colour, to respond to his statement, but a knock at the door interrupted her before she could speak.

"Lady Elide?" called an unfamiliar voice.

"Come in." She called back from the balcony. The door opened, and the smartly dressed butler stepped in, perspiration soaking his hairline. "Yes?"

He bowed, then said fluently, "Her Majesty invites you to join her on the dais in an hour for dinner. She's booked entertainment, and hopes you'll be impressed by our classic Melisande meals. She says that formal wear is appreciated, but not enforced."

Elide had to restrain from raising her eyebrows at the bluntness of it, but instead she donned a beatific smile and thanked the man, then dismissed him.

"'Formal wear is appreciated but not enforced'?" Lorcan scoffed, but she gave him a sharp look and the mocking expression dropped from his face, though the disgust lingered. She noticed that he hadn't really lost his disgusted look since they arrived.

"It's obvious how little time you've spent among diplomats these past years," Elide remarked dryly, rummaging through the bag she'd brought with her for a change of clothes. "Did you just kill whoever it was who pissed you off whilst travelling, rather than try to discuss the issue like rational human beings?"

She regretted the choice of words the moment she said them, but when she shot him an anxious look over his shoulder, he deadpanned, "I didn't kill them, just knocked them off so they didn't scream as much. Old habits die hard."

She laughed, and the shock of doing it, in the company of this male, was what stilled her hands in their search.

Here she was, sharing jokes and easing with the one who'd she'd once sworn she would never forgive. She understood why he'd done it, knowing about his values, and his supreme distaste for her queen, but. . . He'd done it for _her_. And had sent everything to hell as a consequence of that. She wasn't sure how easily she could forgive the fact that whilst his intentions may have been good, he hadn't taken what she _wanted_ into context, and-

 _Gods_ why was she angsting so much about this? She had more important things to focus on.

Elide shook the thoughts from her head and selected an ensemble of a bottle green dress shirt with golden embroidery of phoenixes curling round the hem and cuffs, and black trousers. After running a critical eye over it, she tossed it over her arm and threw the words, "I'm getting changed in the bathroom. Don't come in" over her shoulder at Lorcan before stepping into the tiled room and instead of letting the door slam shut behind her, she propped it open with her left shoe, so it left a sliver of space for sound to pass through.

"Do you think Nik and Ombriel being here might have something to do with the attacks?" She asked as she deftly unbuttoned her dress. Once the last button went the fabric slid off her like water, and pooled at her feet on the white floor in a crush of cobalt.

Silence for a moment, then, "It could," Lorcan mused, though his voice was monotone and flat. She felt suddenly exposed, even with a wall and door between them, standing in the middle of the floor in just her undergarments, so she hastened to shove her legs into the trousers. Then she had the chance to have a good look at them for the first time, and she took the moment to appreciate the texture, the way it seemed to swallow all the light in the room into a velvet-soft darkness. Then she pulled them on.

"I mean," Lorcan continued outside. "For all we know, there's a rutting _association_ of travellers setting these things off. I'm still hesitant to point to blame at travellers and circuses in general, but I have to admit it's the most likely outcome."

"Hmm," Elide hummed noncommittally, shrugging on the shirt. The fabric was stiff against her skin, but it went right down to her wrists, so the pockets inside Aelin had insisted she have sewn in to hide hidden blades weren't noticeable.

She pulled her hair out of its plait and shook it loose around her shoulders, before twisting it up into a meticulous bun, stuck through with two pins. These too were disguised weapons - Aelin had recommended them as well, saying her old friend Philippa had been the one to come up with the idea - but generally Elide just used them to keep her hair out of her face.

It unsettled her, sometimes, how prepared she was for war, in a time of peace.

But she doubted any of them were free from the war's clutches. She knew for a fact Aelin still had nightmares, and Lysandra, and her own certainly hadn't gone away.

Memories of the floor rushing up at her as she toppled down the stairs; memories of the leering faces of the guards as they stared at her nakedness, Kaltain Rompier's hands outstretched, with a fire that was not of this world tearing from them; memories of Maeve threatening to whip her, then whipping Aelin, and blood soaking the ground; memories of the war that none of them stopped reliving. Not for a single moment.

Conscious of her rising heartrate, she focused on the one image she had to kept herself steady amongst the storm.

She and Aelin and Aedion kneeling in the grass of the Stone Marshes of Eyllwe, Lorcan behind her, and Manon Blackbeak walking into sight, and mouthing the one word Elide had been sure none of them believed in.

 _Hope._

They were not dead. None of them were dead.

When Elide walking out of the bathroom, Lorcan raised a sceptical eyebrow, and for an instant she was certain he'd heard her panicked breaths and pulse through the wall. Then the expression dropped from his face entirely, leaving only a blank slate behind, and it was only the observation skills Anneith had blessed her with that showed her the slight clench to his jaw as he surveyed her in her attire.

"Shall we go?" She asked, and at his silent nod, she turned and slipped out of the door.

* * *

"Might I say, Lady," the Queen of Melisande leaned over to say whilst they were at dinner that night. "That you do look lovely. And your. . . companion," Elide didn't think she was bothering to hide the slight sneer in her voice, "equally so."

"And you look positively radiant, Your Majesty," she replied eloquently, picking up her glass of wine with her left hand and swirling it purposefully for a few moments, before drinking it with a tentative sip to taste it, before actually swallowing. No less than three attempts to poison her in the past ten years (and so many more, in Aelin's case; enemies never seemed to understand that Rowan's Fae senses would pick up poisoned food long before it was consumed) had led to her training herself to recognise several notorious poisons by their taste and smell alone, and gods damn her if she didn't utilise that skill now.

Finding the wine to be clean, she sipped it delicately, in the neat, ladylike way that kept any from falling on her shirt, and gave the illusion of a calm, collected woman.

"Your shirt, especially," the queen went on, and Elide had to forcefully stop herself from flinching back when the woman gripped her right wrist and ran a reverent thumb over the detailing of the phoenixes and salamanders. It lingered over the flame at the base of the wrist, right where Elide was sure the queen could feel her pulse beating an increasingly rapid pattern. "It's exquisite."

She released her hand, and though Elide wanted to snatch it back immediately and cradle it to herself like a lost child, she forced herself to remain calm, and instead set it carefully on the table, where she fiddled with the silver soup spoon in her already-empty bowl. She was loathe to admit it, but the journey had made her gobble up all the sustenance she could get.

"I especially love how it reflects your _wonderful_ nation," the queen continued, though the slight stress she put on "wonderful" had Elide narrowing her eyes the slightest. She waved a hand at the clothing. "The rich greens, the pattern of stitches, the cut of the cloth is all very Terrasen. It's everything your country stands for. And as for the fire-related mythology. . ." The queen's lips pressed very tightly together. "Well, I can only imagine they refer to your queen's _unique_ set of powers."

A memory rose to the surface in Elide's mind, unbidden: Aelin recounting the days of being a child with her power, with everyone around her fearing her for it, and about how at the time the new Queen of Melisande had been _very_ interested to know what manner of gifts she might possess. What sort of a threat she might pose.

So Elide responded to the queen's serpentine smile with a saccharine one of her own, and left the comment hanging with no response.

The next few courses came and went, and Elide was just starting to itch from the silence on the dais (not to mention Lorcan's increasing restlessness as he sat next to her) when the queen began with small talk, politely asking about her allies such as Manon and Dorian and Ansel (there was a less than subtle sneer to the queen's voice as she mentioned the Queen of the Wastes). Elide responded, just as politely, and so the hours passed.

"You're such a fascinating conversationalist, Lady," the queen remarked, taking another sip of her wine. She'd drunken quite a few glasses of it throughout the course of the dinner, but didn't appear anything other than sober. "I trust you'll be joining us for the evening entertainment?"

"Of course."

Then the queen stood, and without pomp or ceremony, departed from the room. Lorcan cast a glance at Elide as she did, but didn't break the silence he'd kept all dinner as he slipped away to gods knew where. Elide sighed, and decided to retire to her rooms for the time being.

She didn't join them for evening entertainment that night, but Lorcan did. Why, she never knew, but the result of that action came to them late at night, when the moon was half obscured by clouds, and Elide was reading by candlelight.

The door banged open without warning, making Elide shriek and grab for her blades, but an instant later the light of her candle fell upon Lorcan's face, spattered in a few droplets of blood. He strolled in briskly, with a firm set to his mouth, and a limp body flung over his shoulder.

The door may have opened with a bang, but it shut with a whimper.


	7. Blade And Hatchet

**Hello! Long time no see!**

 **Honestly... I have no excuse for poor updating. Just that ACOWAR came along and obliterated every thought in my head.**

 **Nevertheless, thanks to everyone who reviewed!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own TOG.**

* * *

 _"What in burning hell_ are _those beasts?" It was Ombriel, a long-sword out - and gripped in a way that told him she knew how to wield it. Nik came thundering up behind her, two rough, near-rusted blades in his meaty hands._

 _"Soldiers from Morath," was all Lorcan supplied. Nik was eyeing the blade and hatchet Lorcan had drawn, and he didn't think to pretend not to know how to use either, to be a simple man from the wilds, as he said with cold precision, "They're naturally able to cut through most magic - and only beheading will keep them down."_

 _"They're nearly eight feet," Ombriel said, face pale._

 _Lorcan left them to their assessments and fear, stepping into the ring of light in the heart of the camp as the four ilken finished playing with the young man. The human was still alive, mouthing a plea for help._

 _Lorcan lashed out with his power and could have sworn the young man had gratitude in his eyes as death kissed him in greeting._

* * *

Elide rose from her seat, her book now forgotten. "What the _fuck_ is going on, Lorcan," she said, some of Aelin's signature profanity slipping from her mouth.

He didn't even call her out on it. Not the way he'd done in the carriage, when he'd joked that ladies technically shouldn't use such words. Instead, his mouth just tightened, and his gaze was narrow and hateful as he glared at the body he dumped onto the floor. "That's what I'd like to find out."

The body groaned, the face pressed into the floor, and tried to rise onto its elbows, but Lorcan reached out a foot and pushed it back down again. "What do you want?" The person spat, only a slight tremble in the distinctly male voice betraying his fear. But the few words he said we enough for Elide to recognise him.

Her gaze snapped to Lorcan's. "What is he doing here." An order, not a question.

He seemed to know it too, and swallowed. "Again: that's what I'd like to find out. I saw _him,_ " he prodded the mans side with the toe of his boot, and the man let out a hiss, "and his troupe performing at the evening entertainment. I'd been out in the city for hours looking for them, only to return to find them strutting before us like some gods-damned peacocks." His dark eyes flashed to hers. "Why weren't you there?"

"I don't need to explain myself to you." She eyed the body - at the face now twisted to glower at her. "Why bring him here?"

"We need to spread some enquiries among travelling circuses anyway, and I'd rather not question some innocent troupe over them. Why do you think I was searching for them around the city? Even if they're not the culprits we're looking for," another jab to the ribs, "I will feel no regret using the more unsavoury means of interrogation. We have a score to settle."

" _You_ have a score to settle," she corrected, trying to ignore how his eyes widened at her words - in shock, and maybe a little hurt. "As a diplomat, you learn that petty personal grudges generally have to be let go in order to do the right thing." She crossed her arms, and met his intrusive stare. "Now, we can try to have this discussion calmly, and without violence first, and only resort to it if there's a genuine need. Regardless of past encounters." She crouched next to the man. "Isn't that right, Nik?"

The man rolled over and spat, "Bitch." Lorcan growled, and Elide rolled her eyes. As Aelin would call it: _Territorial Fae Bullshit._

"Calm down, both of you. We just have a few questions. We'll only hurt you if necessary, Nik. I give you my word." She kept her tone light and truthful. He was already inclined enough to distrust her as it was.

"Because your word is worth _so much_ isn't it, _Marion_?" He sneered. She saw a muscle in Lorcan's jaw feather.

For a moment, she allowed herself to wonder who this was. Yes, Nik had valid reason to hate and despise her (though she had more evidence to the contrary, in her personal opinion) but he'd always been a good-tempered, jovial man when she'd known him. What horrors had he endured during the war to tear that away from him, and turn him into the brittle, bitter shell she saw today? What had happened _since_ the war to perpetuate that?

"Believe me or not," she said calmly. "The fact remains that Lorcan's thrown a shield around this room, so no one can hear in or out, and there'll be no one coming up here for hours. Whether or not you understand that, I simply want you to answer a few questions that have arisen since we arrived in Melisande. Is that too much to ask?"

Nik was, and remained, a reasonable man at heart. So he eyed her suspiciously, and when he could find nothing wrong with that agreement, simply jerked his chin at Lorcan then said, "I'll talk if the brute puts away his weapons."

Lorcan grunted. Elide glowered at him. Lorcan glared back. Elide raised an eyebrow. Lorcan put away his weapons and sulked.

Swallowing to hide the faint blush on her cheeks, Elide turned to Nik again. "Alright, then." She said. "Let's begin with a more generic question. What's happened to you and the rest of the troupe since we last saw you?"

"Since Ombriel and I sold you to the town garrison you mean? Since we were left looking stupid after your miraculous escape?" She nodded. He turned to Lorcan and said, "Why'd you kill that man, by the way? During the escape. It looked like he was helping you."

Guilt churned in her gut as she thought of the man, of his sons that had attacked her carriage only a few days previously. "Lorcan and I have had words about that." She said vaguely, but fixed him with a piercing stare that clearly said she had no plans of elaborating further. Nik shifted in his chair; she noted his discomfort. "You never answered my question."

She noticed him bite the inside of his cheek. So he'd been planning to evade the question, rather than facing it head on. Was the experience traumatic? Was he ashamed of it? Was it something he simply didn't wish to divulge to people who stole him away like thieves in the night, who might have a perfectly good justification for killing him?

Finally, he said, "Those monsters came to get you. When we'd notified the town garrison, Vernon Lochan - _your uncle_ ," he spat in her direction, "came with his beasts to track you down and fly you back to Morath. But you were gone. So they took us instead."

He shuddered, and Elide felt herself begin to feel slightly nauseous, even as she noted his eyes, and the way they'd been scrunched shut - traumatic experience it was then. He was fiddling with his hands, picking at his fingers - at the scars there. She observed them keenly, and noticed all-too-familiar jagged scars crusting the joints.

"You know, I'd never heard Ombriel scream before. Not once. She had guts, and she had courage. Not to mention she knew screaming in a dangerous situation is just as likely to make you a target as get you help. But when they lay into her with those torture devices," he shuddered, "we could hear her screaming from the belly of the mountain."

He wriggled his fingers, flexing them - like he was trying to remind himself they still worked. But he'd settled into his narrative now, so Elide tried to extract as much information as possible without interrupting the flow of it.

"They were harsher on us - her and me, that is. We were the ones who'd waited too long, who'd failed to deliver you to them - so they punished us. They shattered my fingers in front of the others. As an example of what they could do. What pain they could inflict, should they so wish."

A few years ago, Elide would have asked why. But she was not that naïve little girl any more. She knew exactly why. "They wanted to use you against us."

Nik nodded. "We heard those things - the ilken - hissing at night. They talked about a bitch queen who'd torn through a legion of their kind with her fire; about a witch queen who'd rallied an army and chased them out of Rifthold. And we knew that the moment you two were caught and brought to Morath, we would be dragged out, and something would be done with us to make you break. Molly loathes the mention of you now."

"Understandable," Elide murmured soothingly. Nik seemed to relax at the words. Whatever Lorcan thought about them, his unyielding granite face didn't move once bit.

"We escaped, just before the war ended. The invasion of Morath was underway, and the guards of our cells were a little too preoccupied with that to notice a few unimportant prisoners sneaking a key off the hook and fleeing the grounds amidst the carnage. It took us days to get over that mountain range and into Melisande. Longer, with our injuries. Many people- Too many people died of infection."

His eyes had gone dark at the thought of it.

"Somehow, Ombriel and I survived, and so did Molly and a good chunk of the crew. But by the time we were deep into Melisande, we were penniless and desperate. We tried to work as peddlers for several years, after the war ended, and tried to use how destitute Melisande's economy was to our advantage. But we were still just as desperate last year, when the Queen of Melisande contacted us, and offered to fund our circus so long as she got a ten percent cut of the earnings." He shrugged. "How could we say no?"

"She's been investing in your works?" Elide clarified. Nik nodded. She creased her brow.

Tangled - so tangled this queen's agenda was.

"Why were you performing as the evening entertainment tonight?" Lorcan sullied the room with a frown.

Nik raised his brows at him. "Because she asked us to. Because she offered to pay us extra. I don't know about you, but I'm not keen on biting the hand that feeds me, nor of looking a gift horse in the mouth."

 _Why might she have done that?_ Elide thought. _To mess with us? Or is there some deeper game afoot?_

Odds were, she knew, it was both.

"That's all there is to the story." Nik supplied. "I swear it."

Elide believed him. She imagined gathering the few pieces of precious information she'd been given in her hands, and drawing a line from kernel to kernel. Some link - there had to be some link between them. There must be a pattern. . .

Out loud, she said to Lorcan, "Drop the shield. He's free to go." She added to Nik, "When are you leaving the city?"

"Tonight. They should be waiting for me as we speak; Molly's probably thinking that I'm out drunk or something."

She nodded, patting his shoulder. "Alright then. Be on your way. You're free to go." His face lit up, and he scrambled to his feet. Lorcan gave him a hard look as he hurried past, but moved aside to let the man through all the same. "And Nik?" She added, as he was about the open the door.

He paused. "What?" He asked, but there was no bite behind it. He seemed to have noted that she'd kept her word about not hurting him.

"Try to stay out of trouble. These are dangerous times."

His face sobered, and she knew he was suddenly remembering who she was. But his tone was respectable as he said, "Of course, my lady."

The door banged on the way out much the same as it did on the way in.

Elide only hoped he understood her message before it was too late.


	8. One Particular Detail

_A question snagged in Lorcan's mind, drawing him to the present, to the stuffy little tent. "Your foot has been ruined for years, though. He kept you in the dungeons for that long?"_

 _"No," she said, not even flinching at his rough description. "I was only in the dungeon for a week. The ankle, the chain. . . he did that to me long before."_

 _"What chain."_

 _She blinked. And he knew she'd meant to avoid telling him that one particular detail._

 _But now that he looked. . . He could make out, amongst the scars, a white band. And there, around her perfect, lovely other ankle, was its twin._

 _A wind laced with the dust and coldness of a tomb gnawed through the field._

 _Marion merely said, "When you kill my uncle, ask him yourself."_

* * *

Nick and Ombriel left the next morning, without so much as a backward glance from the man to confirm he'd even found the note she'd left in his pocket, led alone agreed to the terms it laid forth. But Elide couldn't bring herself to grieve; they were out of her hair now, and that was one less weapon for the Queen of Melisande to rattle her with. She wasn't just representing Perranth for once; she was representing Terrasen now as well. She had to keep her wits about her.

Not that the queen seemed to be putting much effort into antagonising her anymore. The day after the circus troupe left, the debates suddenly took a violent and entirely unexpected turn (not that she ever let the other diplomats and courtiers know about her surprise) into the ones she'd been searching for, about trade links and alliances and business and fostering good relations between the two countries. It was like she'd been dancing across the surface of a frozen lake, frantically trying to break the ice and get to the water below, only for it to shatter beneath her and allow her to plunge into the blue depths.

The queen, strangely enough, rarely participated in discussions, preferring to lean back and listen to Elide discuss various profits that could come about due to an alliance, rather than get her toes wet herself. Elide didn't know what to make of that.

The morning after Nik had left, Elide sent a letter. Two days later, she got Aelin's reply. She breathed a sigh of relief.

And so a week passed, until Elide had relaxed her guard. Lorcan never did, and with the mission they'd been sent South to carry out in his mind, had single-mindedly tracked amongst the troupes that converged on the city, terrorising quite a few. Elide had bore witness to the rage he brought back to their apartments at his lack of success, and she didn't even have it in her to laugh, he was trying so hard.

"You'll find them, I'm sure," she'd told him one evening, when he was in an especially foul mood.

Instead of snapping at her, like she'd expected, he'd looked up at her from the bed with desperate eyes. "You really think so?" He asked. She'd been astounded at the vulnerability he'd shown in that moment.

"Of course," she'd replied haltingly. Of course he was afraid of failing; they'd all given him the impression that he could only remain an ambassador of Terrasen so long as he proved himself useful. He'd found he liked the position; he didn't want to go.

She didn't want him to go either.

They'd fallen into an oddly familiar rhythm, one that sang of the journey they'd taken together before the Stone Marshes of Eyllwe. She planned and looked and deduced; he acted and fought and struck. They made a surprisingly good team.

They wouldn't have been caught unawares if they'd been together.

But Lorcan was once again in the city hunting down those responsible for the attacks, and Elide was alone, so they weren't together. And they were caught unawares.

It started when the queen spoke for the first time in hours. She and Elide had simply been sitting in the parlour listening to some of the ladies talk, when she very suddenly turned to her and asked, "In all the time you've been here, I don't think you've a full tour of the palace, have you, my lady?"

Elide had delicately shaken her head. "No, Your Majesty."

The woman had risen immediately, her skirts bunching up around her as she stood. "Well then allow me to rectify that," she announced. "Come with me, and I'll show you _everything_." The stress she put on that one word made the sentence sound strangely sinister.

But it would be consider an offence to refuse, so Elide had risen as well, and followed her out the door.

True to her word, the queen showed her every room in excruciating detail, leaving no stone unturned when describing the surviving artefacts, the tapestries and suits of armour with embellished crests on them. Elide found it desperately dull, but she made sure to file away information that felt like it could be important for later, and prod and ask questions under the guise of curiosity where further elaboration was needed.

It was only when they were beginning to approach the main tower that she noticed something amiss. The queen's hands were shaking ever so slightly, and her forehead gleamed with sweat. It could be from the long walk they'd had around the castle - Elide knew for a certain that her ankle was beginning to ache at the strain - but surely the queen would have said something if it was?

Then they turned a corner and were facing the spiral staircase up to the tower's turrets, and all thought emptied out of her head.

She gripped the banister that ran along the wall and tried to steady her breathing.

"Are you all right, my lady?" The queen asked. Bitch. _Bitch_. She knew exactly what sort of memories this would stir up, and had suggested doing it anyway.

Elide took her foot off the first step. "I'm not going up there. I'm sorry, but I can't."

The queen sighed. Her eyes seemed almost regretful as she said, "It's a shame. We thought you'd make it further than this. But alas." Her voice hardened. "I can carry you the rest of the way."

 _What?_ was all Elide had time to think, before the queen seized her head and slammed it against the stone wall.

She heard the crack from very far away. She was sure either the wall or her skull would shatter. Her vision swam. Her head lolled to the side as the queen hoisted her up by her armpits and then her heels were thumping and scraping against the steps so. . . They were going up? They were going up. Even in her delirium, fear gripped her, and Elide flexed her hands and struggled limply, but the queen cooed in her ear, "Shhh, little lady, I won't hurt you," and Elide had never hated someone so much.

She kept dragging her, upwards and upwards. Elide wasn't sure whether the spinning was from her head, or the spiral staircase. She fumbled for the dagger at her side, before it was neatly plucked from her clumsy fingers in one smooth motion. "Oh child." The queen's voice was still full of that hideous pity. "We don't want you getting hurt now do we?"

Elide kicked out her leg and tried to stand herself, but her head spun, and she almost vomited before half-fainting, and beginning to pitch headfirst down the steps. The queen caught her again. "Just a little further, sweet Elide," she crooned, and then there was a door in front of them and the queen was kicking it open, and Elide was tumbling inside, and being dumped onto what felt like a vaguely comfortable mattress.

She flung herself onto her feet just as the door slammed shut. "No!" She flew at it, clawing at the wood with well-kept fingernails until they were raw and bleeding. The queen's face appeared at a small, barred window in the door, just above her head. Elide tilted her head back to look her in the eye, and had never felt smaller.

Small - she'd been so small when she'd tripped down the stairs as a child and shattered her ankle and Vernon had leered and laughed and refused to send for a healer and she'd wondered whether he would have laughed if it had been her neck-

Away, no, _away_ , she shoved at the memories. _Not now not now not now._

But the walls were closing in and she was suddenly curled p on the floor in a ball and she was so, so small but she needed to get smaller or the walls would crush her and her bones would be pressed into splinters and dust-

 _Listen,_ said a voice at her shoulder, and Elide could have wept at the sound of Anneith again. _See._

The queen was speaking. She knew the queen was speaking but she couldn't make out what she was saying. She couldn't _breathe_ and now she's going to die here because she wasn't smart enough wasn't sly enough wasn't enough.

 _Enough_.

"Why?" was the only word she could get out in the midst of her panic.

"Why?" The queen mused, rolling the word around her tongue like a bitter sweet. "Why did I hire those circus workers to go round starting fires and explosions to garner the attention of your bitch queen and her allies, do you mean? Why did I need Aelin Fire-Bringer to send you, her greatest spy and diplomat, to Melisande to investigate the attacks? Why have I _locked you up_?" Her hands were gripped the iron bars now; her knuckles were pale.

"Your queen took everything from me," she spat. "My reputation, my kingdom, my freedom. But I was willing to overlook that," she continued. Her face disappeared from the door, and the sound of footsteps outside told Elide that the queen was pacing. So long as she focused on the woman's words, and not their surroundings, she found she was significantly calmer. "I was willing to establish trade, once you extended the offer; I was willing to look past my personal wrongs and plough on for the sake of my kingdom. Because _that is what queens do._

"But apparently I am fated by the gods to be no more than a puppet queen; a means to an end; a tool. A plaything. First to Erawan and his monsters," she sneered, "and now to _them_.

"The witches want their kingdom back, Elide." Her voice dropped to a mere caress. "The rogue Ironteeth yearn for the Western Wastes back, and for what they believe is right. They know Manon Blackbeak managed to lift the curse somehow; they want their reward for waiting this long.

"But it's split. Between the Crochans-Ironteeth covens, and the humans. _Ansel of Briarcliff_ ," she spat with more hatred than Elide had ever seen her muster, "has a small army; she would succumb easily to a full witch and wyvern invasion, even with the rogues' limited numbers. But it's the Crochan witches - and their allies - that are the problem. And here you are," she stopped pacing, and looked hard at Elide through the bars. Her eyes roved up and now her frame. "A Blackbeak witch, a Lady of Terrasen, and a bargaining chip to boot." She shrugged, but there was nothing casual in it. "It's no wonder they placed attacks on my cities until I was forced to yield to their cause. You saw the ruin of the city walls on your way in, didn't you?"

She leaned closer to the bars, until their faces were inches apart. "So you'd better pray to that patron goddess of yours, little Lady," she whispered. "Because wisdom is the only thing in war that turns a defeat into a victory, and there is no king or queen on this continent who would dare move against the witches whilst I have you caged like a pretty songbird." She straightened up again. "our queens - Aelin and Manon, that is - have two months to make their choice: condemn you to death, or retreat from their alliance with the Wastes. Just in time for the witches to swoop in a reclaim their homeland."

Unbeknownst to her, a tear had slipped down Elide's cheek. She noticed this, and tutted. "Oh, dearest Elide," the queen sighed. "Did you really think the war had ended ten years ago?"

"How-" Her voice cracked when she tried to speak, but she ploughed on. "How could you- Are we so predictable?"

"No, I'm afraid. That would've made this entire venture so much easier. But that queen of yours is a wildcard, and you only act when you've got all the facts. I had to interview professionals to predict your moves so successfully."

Her confusion must have showed on her face, because the queen allowed herself a half-smile. "The women closest to you, of course. Aelin, it was fairly difficult; that bitch has known so many people who died it's difficult getting a hold on someone who could analyse her so effectively. But Philippa, her maid from when she was the King of Adarlan's Champion, talked easily enough once she'd had her first taste of what I could offer her." A gleeful pause. "Can you guess who yours was?"

Elide knew it. She knew it like her heart was a stone that had been tossed into the deepest trench of the ocean. "Finnula," she choked out.

"Indeed." The queen's smile was saccharine.

" _What did you do to her?_ "

The queen went on, ignoring her. "Perhaps if you're both good, I can put you in the same cell. Have a little company." She smiled sweetly, and gave a mocking incline of her head. "That's all for today, Lady Elide. I hope you sleep well, and I look forward to speaking with you tomorrow."

She walked away, her footsteps echoing up and down the stairwell as she went.

Elide cried herself to sleep for the next three nights.


	9. One To Look Out For

**Monsandes is what I decided to call the capital of Melisande, since we never found out in the books. It's pronounced _mon-san-deez_.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own the Throne of Glass series, or the extract at the beginning of the chapter. I only own the writing, and the truly horrific pun you'll find buried in the chapter.**

* * *

 _The Queen of Terrasen._

 _Elide's hope had not been misplaced._

 _Even if the young queen was now toeing the dirt and grass, unable to keep still while she bargained for the man's life._

 _Behind her, the Fae warrior observed every flicker of movement._

 _He'd be the deadly one - the one to look out for._

 _The queen kept fidgeting her foot in the grass. She couldn't be more than twenty. And yet, she moved like a warrior, too - or she had, until the incessant shifting around. But she halted the movement, as if realising it gave away her nerves, her inexperience. The wind was blowing in the wrong direction for Manon to detect the queen's true level of fear. "Well, Wing Leader?"_

 _Would the king put a collar around her fair neck, as he had the prince's? Or would he kill her? It made no difference. She would be a prize the king would welcome._

 _No fear in her eyes - in her pretty, mortal face._

 _None._

 _"I have no interest in prisoners or battling today," Manon said._

 _The Queen of Terrasen gave her a grin. "Good."_

* * *

"Tie that pack a little tighter, Nik," Molly called. Nik glanced back at the sloppy job he'd done on the leather bands holding the pack to the donkey. He cursed to himself as he fiddled with the strap again. The girl's note had haunted his thoughts since he'd found it, and everything he'd done was half the standard it was usually up to.

"You alright, Nik?" asked a sudden voice. He jumped, his hand flying to clasp his breast pocket. His thumb brushed the edge of a folded piece of paper; good. The note was still there.

Ombriel cocked her head at him, bird-like, a bag slung over her shoulder that bounced with the motion. For once her dark hair didn't fall about her face, since she'd wrapped it up in a royal blue bandanna embroidered with crimson poppies she'd bought whilst they were in Monsandes. He had to wonder where she'd got the money to pay for it from; times were still hard, even with the Queen of Melisande's endorsing them and Terrasen's decision to make the toll cheaper, and they rarely had money to spare. Especially on something as trivial and expensive as a hand-made ware of one of Melisande's famed artisans.

"You seem a bit. . ." She trailed of as she tried to find the right word. She reached out a hand to pat him on the shoulder - near the pocket that held the letter - and he jerked back. "Jumpy," she finished drily.

"I'm fine," he assured her, finishing off the final knot and stroking the donkey's ears. "Just. . . Remember how I disappeared the evening before we left?" She nodded. "I just went for a walk around the city, and saw some. . . _questionable_ things." It wasn't a lie; he'd been wandering when that demi-Fae brute had knocked him out cold. He shuddered at the memory, adding further credence to his story. "I can't quite get them out of my mind."

Ombriel laughed. "I can imagine." She probably could; better than him, at least. In her decade and a half working for the carnival as a bodyguard and money-keeper, she'd seen far more than he had.

" _What do you mean you can't pay the toll?"_ The shout startled him into action. He glanced over by the caravans, where Molly was having an intense rant at the new sword-thrower. A weedy boy, a bit green and inexperienced, he didn't seem to know whether to cower or to argue back.

Ombriel sighed through her mouth. "I'll go and see what that's about." She glanced at Nik, and maybe they were narrowed against the sun, but he might have thought there was a touch of suspicion in her dark eyes. "Do you mind tying my pack to the mule for me?" He shook his head, and she dumped it at his feet and jogged off. "I take it Flynn can't pay the toll for the Florine River?" She shouted ahead of her. Nik shook his head, and didn't bother to listen to Molly's reply.

He grunted to himself instead, and moved to fasten the straps of Ombriel's bag to his own. But he slipped, one of the ties tugged loose, and a sachet of something dropped out onto the floor. He glanced down at it. Then he froze.

He remembered seeing a sachet of a substance like that only once before, in the Shadow Market of Rifthold, during the days of Adarlan's empire. The opium dealer had been the one selling it, and Nik still remembered the reverence with which he'd whispered the words to him, feeling like a conspirator's secret as he said, "It's one of the ingredients of hellfire."

Hellfire.

 _Hellfire_.

Nik mind whirled back to the note Marion - Elide, Lady Elide - had given him. An explanation about a series of attacks, and a plea to _Keep your eyes open and report anything strange to my queen_ because _You'll be handsomely rewarded for any information you can put forth_.

It couldn't be. Orynth - they were heading to Orynth, and Nik had _seen_ the list, he knew that it had already been targeted-

But he'd also seen the similarities between the routes his carnival had been taking, and the routes this attacker had been taking. And he knew as well as anyone they were only breezing through Orynth to stay the night, then up again the next morning to-

Ilium.

Which had _not_ been a victim of attack yet.

Oh gods. Oh gods oh gods oh gods.

Ombriel-

It couldn't be Ombriel. It couldn't be.

And yet-

It. Couldn't. Be.

He might have been able to convince himself that she was innocent, had the sun not come out of the clouds at that precise moment, like the gods had willed it. Like Mala, whose line the Queen of Terrasen hailed from, was watching, and decided to shed some light on the situation.

But it did.

He turned to look over, incredulously, at the woman he'd considered a life long friend, the woman he'd thought he knew like the back of his hand, just as a stray wind stirred the cloud covering the sun and chased it away. The sudden flood of light caught on Ombriel's blade, stationed at her hips as always, and dragged Nik's attention.

Her blades were very fine ones. Very fine indeed. She'd need a lot of money to pay for blades like those.

The note in his breast pocket felt suddenly heavy. He lifted it out, unfolded it, and read it twice.

Then he crushed it in his fist.

If Ombriel had the luxury of extra pay - the source of which he suspected he knew - then it was only fair of Nik to level the playing field.

* * *

The doors to the throne room of Orynth banged open with far less courtesy or reverence that they usually did. Aelin knew who it was before she even looked up.

" _What the rutting hell happened?_ "

Aelin had to suppress a shiver. Those were the words she, Celaena Sardothien, had uttered upon her arrival at one of her last appearances in public. Since Arobynn's death and the reading of his will, she'd been able to bury Celaena forever.

She dearly hoped this wasn't an omen offer the future. For her, for Elide, for anyone, really.

She scanned the last sentence of the letter in her hand, and then crushed it in her fist - again - and looked up.

Manon Blackbeak was a queen of three peoples, but she never deigned to wear a crown. (Not that Aelin blamed her; the antler crown was gods-damned _heavy_.) Nor did she don pretty dresses or flirtatious smiles or win the hearts of the nobles the way the previous Queen of Adarlan, Georgina, Dorian's mother, had. Instead, she'd won the support of the witches through bloodshed and war, by uniting her two heritage bloodlines and lifting Rhiannon Crochan's curse. And she'd never won the love of Adarlan, but she'd certainly won their respect. And a healthy amount of fear.

Today, standing in the splendour of the Orynth throne room, she looked more like a guard than a queen. Her white hair was braided in a practical plait down her back, and she wore the simple flying leathers Aelin had first seen her in, near the temple of Temis so many years ago. Her iron teeth were retracted, her iron nails sheathed, but she, Asterin and Sorrel still made for a forbidding trio as they stalked towards her down the length of the emerald carpet rolled out on the floor.

Aelin rose from her seat to march down the steps to meet them. "I don't know!" She hissed. "I scribed word for word the letter I received from that gods-damned bitch and sent it to you along with my letter. Everything you know, I know!" She raised her clenched fist and opened it, letting the crumpled ball of paper fall to the ground. Asterin snatched it before it could hit the floor, unfurled it, and studied the words there with a bird-like keenness. Finally, she nodded at Manon. Aelin scoffed. "A little trust would be appreciated."

Manon ignored her. "So the Queen of Melisande has really taken Elide captive?" She asked incredulously. "Does she want _war_?"

Aelin ran her hands through her hair, but stopped when she touched the antler crown. She wished Rowan was here; he would know what to do. But he was running Perranth in Elide's absence.

"You know, Manon, there's this phrase that I've been repeating several times today. It's one I don't say often, so I wouldn't be surprised if you missed it. But just for future reference, here it is: _I don't know_." She glared, and Manon glared back. This was not a joke - to either of them. It was Elide's life at stake. "I've told you all I know. If we attack Monsandes, we wouldn't be able to take the city, not without a months long siege, by the end of which they'll have slaughtered Elide like an animal. Not to mention there'll be a lot of unnecessary death, and Terrasenites won't be happy to lay down their lives for one woman, regardless of how remarkable she is."

"If we agree to the queen's terms-"

"If we agree to the queen's terms, it involves backing out of all military agreements Adarlan and Terrasen have with the Wastes. You know what that means better than I do, Manon. You are the _queen_ of half the territory. You would let your people be slaughtered for one woman?"

Manon snarled at her, her iron teeth snapping down with a hiss.

Aelin knew that Manon knew the stakes. Knew that she wouldn't do as she herself had suggested, and cave to the Queen of Melisande's offer. Knew that a part of the witch died inside to even consider it.

Guilt churned in her stomach for how she'd spoken to her. But that seemed to be how she treated everyone since the iron coffin: with snaps and snarls and harsh words she couldn't take back.

"Then _what do we do_."

The words stuck in Aelin's throat. They brought back too many memories of a time bathed in bloodshed and hate. "We send in an assassin to get her out."

Manon narrowed her eyes. "Who would we send?"

The doors swung open for a second time then. A steward sidled in. He paused at the sight of the seething women, and gulped, but he said, in a wavering voice, "There's a man outside wishing to speak to you, Your Majesty. He sent in this letter to prove he is who he says he is."

Aelin approached him - first in small steps, then in faster, long ones. She strode up and snatched the missive out of his fingers.

 _The Lady Elide assured me you would know my authenticity by these words: "Knee to knee, tear to tear, sweat to blood to hope in the Stone Marshes of Eyllwe". . ._

She scanned the rest of the letter and felt her heart expand to barricade her chest. "Thank you," she managed to say to the steward. "Send him in. Oh," she added as he began to turn away. "And remind me later to write to Rolfe about the threat against Ilium."

A look of vague confusion and worry passed his face, but he bowed at the waste and said, "As you wish, Your Majesty."

She turned back to the three witches standing in the middle of the room. "A man with further information on the situation is about to come in. If you'd like to receive the news with me, you're welcome to stay." She shot Manon a sly smile. "And to answer your question, Blackbeak: I know _exactly_ who we would send. He's not exactly an assassin. . . but he's the best we've got."

Manon's eyes narrowed, until they were just golden slits, like the edge of a coin. "Better than yourself?"

"Of course not," came the instant reply. She tossed her bright hair. "I mean, you might deny it, Blackbeak, but we both know I kicked your ass that day by Temis's temple."

A growl was the only response.


	10. Surprised You Even Believe Me

_"But who are you?" Nox said. "You said your father moved you to Endovier, that much is true. The prince went there to retrieve you - there's evidence of that journey." Even as he said it, his gaze slid towards her back. "And- you weren't in the town of Endovier. You were_ in _Endovier. The Salt Mines. That explains why you were so painfully thin when I first saw you."_

 _His eyes were wide. "You were a slave in Endovier?" She couldn't find the words to confirm it. Nox was too smart for his own good. "But you're barely a woman. What did you do to. . ." His gaze fell on Chaol, and the guards who stood near him. "Would I have heard your name before? Would I have heard when you were shipped of to Endovier?"_

 _"Yes. Everyone heard when I went," she breathed. He took a step back._

 _"You're a_ girl _?"_

 _"Surprising, I know. Everyone thinks I'm older."_

 _"And you can either be the King's Champion, or go back to Endovier?"_

 _"That's why I can't leave. And why I'm telling you to get out of the castle while you can."_

 _Whatever he read in her expression made his shoulders sag. "All of this time, I thought you were just some pretty girl from Bellhaven who stole jewels to get her father's attention. Little did I know that the blond-haired girl was Queen of the Underworld." He smiled ruefully. "Thanks for warning me. You could have opted to say nothing."_

 _"I'm surprised you even believe me."_

 _"Do me a favour, Celaena," Nox said. The sound of her name startled her. He brought his mouth close to her ear. "Rip Cain's head off."_

 _Nox left early that night, slipping out of the castle without a word to anyone._

* * *

Gods, Lorcan hated this city. Hated it with a fiery passion worthy of the pits of hell.

It didn't help that he was forced to stick to the cesspit that was the slums, since the royal guards patrolled the rest of the city without impunity, and they would jump on the chance to interrogate a mysterious male wearing a large heavy cloak and asking impertinent questions.

And most of all, he hated the large, broad-shouldered fishmonger with skin the colour of curdled milk who was shouting in his face for no apparent reason. Lorcan coolly wiped a string off saliva off his jaw. The only symptom of how uncomfortable he felt was how his Fae ears, hidden underneath the hood, which twitched in discomfort. The man's voice, whilst merely irritatingly loud to an ordinary human, was deafening to a demi-Fae.

Apparently, though, the fishmonger had caught Lorcan trying to filch some of his wares earlier (He had not caught him. Lorcan was sure about that; he'd been too subtle. The man was making a massive fuss over the fact that Lorcan had bumped into him in the market earlier and knocked him on his ass by accident) and was demanding he give them back. Lorcan knew, logically, that it was a bad idea to antagonise the man any further, since even at this level of outrage there was the risk of one of the bystanders reporting to the guards and bringing them over, but he didn't care. He was apathetic, he was angry, and worst of all, he was _desperate_.

Elide was gone. Elide was captured. Elide, who he'd started to develop a new open relationship with, who he'd learned to respect and revere, who he'd sworn to protect, was at the mercy of a fickle queen with a score to settle.

He didn't know why she'd done it, he just knew that she had. He'd been out scouting amongst the city again, since he hadn't detected any malicious intent in the scents of the courtiers Elide was making company with that day, and he loathed small talk and the delicate to and fro of politics anyway. He would have strolled straight back into that death trap of a palace again, had he not heard a snippet of the conversation of two guards. He hung back and listened as the sun sank and painted the walls in red. He remembered how even before he'd known what had happened, he'd thought it looked awfully like blood. Like Sollemere, mid-siege.

And what he'd found out had made him want to destroy the city the way he had then, with fire and blood and death and destruction. Retribution rained down upon them for all of their crimes over the years.

But he'd lived most of his life an unfeeling, calculating bastard - always debating whether it would be more prudent to steal his next meal or earn it, always considering how to defeat his opponent in the quickest way possible. And so amidst the rage and panic, the instructions of what to do had crawled into the back of his head, like a mission sent from Hellas himself.

 _Find out where she's being kept_.

He did. It was the tallest tower in the keep - fucking bastards of course they knew of course they fucking knew about her past and her fears and how to hit her where it hurt even if they didn't physically touch her - and he had to wonder how they'd gotten her up there. Elide was skilled in combat, and would fight tooth and nail to stay out of a place she hated. Nor was she naïve enough to let them blindly lead her up there, without realising what would happen. Had she known the fate that awaited her and had to go along with it for the sake of some political game he had no hope of understanding? Or had they caught her unawares?

Either way, he would slaughter them all.

 _Try to work out the guard schedule for the area_.

That had taken a day to get the basics, and another two to straighten out any anomalies and analyse what they were like as workers - the particularly alert guard at the bottom of the tower on the first day was (fortunately) a substitute, and the normal one had a habit of falling asleep at inopportune moments. Within three days he'd gotten down the basics, and although it killed him to go slowly - a clawed, sharp-toothed fiend roiling in his stomach telling him to _hurry, hurry, hurry_ \- he knew it was best to get all the facts first, than get caught off guard. Even if every passing second felt like a whetstone on the executioner's axe.

That horrible thought had surfaced on the second day - that she might be executed. For what crimes, he didn't know, but it was a possibility. Elide was a valuable asset to the Court of Terrasen; she would be a loss keenly felt, should Melisande choose to go the war with the citizens of the North.

 _War_. A few weeks ago, Lorcan would have scoffed at the word. Erilea had been so shaken by the last war that they had no conflict left to shake themselves into. But he'd been wrong. This was a hurt as old as the war they fought over, and it would not disappear any easier.

 _Establish several ways of getting to her cell, and find a way to get her out._

That was the problematic part. According to the map of the castle he'd stolen off the drunk Captain of the Guard (he had absolutely nothing to do with the suddenly extreme concentration of alcohol in the man's drink, he'd assured the bartender), only two doors led into that particular tower. One of them opened at the bottom of the building, on ground level outside, but it had been bricked up, ironically enough, during Ansel of Briarcliff's occupation of the city to prevent a patriotic citizen from trying to do anything stupid regarding the door and the high security cells it led to. Funnily enough, that specific cell Elide resided in was the one the queen herself had been held in during the conquest.

Lorcan didn't think that was a coincidence.

The second door opened out at the top of a stairwell that led down to the centre of the guards' training area. So there was no access from that point either. Nor were there helpful gargoyles or any sort of ornamentation anywhere near the window he'd deduced was Elide's, so unless someone could scale bare walls at night in almost silence, to avoid alerting the guards patrolling the courtyard below, then there was no way in. His powers could possibly shield a climber from sight and sound if they were to attempt it, but they certainly couldn't catch them if they fell. And Lorcan knew he was too heavy to even attempt such a fatal climb. He wouldn't make it three metres.

And what sort of person would accept such a dangerous challenge for a woman they'd never met, and had nothing to do with? No one.

It was useless.

 _He_ was useless.

That was the thought that had haunted him as he'd stalked round the city in the six days since it had happened. _He was useless_. And it was the thought that spurred him into such anger that a snarl ripped out of his throat as he faced down the enraged fishmonger, and seriously debated gutting him then and there, and damning the consequences.

He hadn't felt bloodlust like this in. . . years.

But he never got the chance to act on it, because right then he heard an unfamiliar voice shout, "Salvaterre! You're here! I've been looking everywhere for you!"

He sensed more than anything else the young man who swaggered up to him then. He turned, to be met by a sight of a lanky figure with an unruly face, a mop of dark hair, sharp cheekbones and light grey eyes the colour of rain.

"You'll have to forgive my friend here," the man assured the fishmonger, whose outraged expression softened to mere grumpiness. "He has a _very_ short fuse, and if anyone shouts at him, he _will_ shout back." The man clapped Lorcan on the back; Lorcan held in his grumble. He didn't know what was going on, and he didn't like it, but apparently this man was the only one who could tell him. So he kept quiet. "I'm very sorry if he did steal something, and whether he did or not, here's a few silver pieces for the bother." Lorcan blinked as the man forked over the money without even haggling. He'd never seen anyone quite so full of goodwill, before. The man clapped him on the shoulder again, took hold of his bicep, and began to steer him away. "Now, we'd best be off. Have a nice day!"

The man's grip didn't loosen until they were at least a dozen streets over, and had ducked into a tavern. Immediately, his demeanour had changed massively, until he was just another arrogant, entitled young man roaming the city for a source of entertainment. He ordered them two drinks with a rowdy voice, handed over the money, accepted them with a wink. . . and then they'd slipped into a booth at the very back of the tavern, dumping the jugs of alcohol in front of two gamblers as they went.

Once they were seated, the man had barely even opened his mouth to speak, when Lorcan hissed, "Who the hell are you?"

The man smirked. "Nox Owen, at your service. The Hand of the Queen of Terrasen." He leaned forwards. "I was sent down here to sort out the situation with Lady Elide." He narrowed his eyes. "I don't suppose you'd know much about that, would you, Lorcan Salvaterre?"

 _Nox Owen_. The name rang a bell. Thief from Perranth, who'd become a master thief during the War and had armed the bitch-queen's army with weapons filched off Erawan and his troops. He'd become a hero in his hometown - _Elide's_ hometown - and they'd still whispered his name with reverence when Lorcan had gone to the city to see Elide again.

But still. . . "How do I know you're telling the truth?" In fact, most of the man's body language pointed towards honesty, but Lorcan had been tricked before.

The man smiled then, slow and steady, although Lorcan could tell he knew very well what sort of threat was behind the words. For a moment, the demi-Fae could see why the queen had made such good friends with him; they had similar temperaments. "Aelin told me you'd ask that. She also told me to give you this." He pushed a crumpled ball of paper over the table towards him.

It was fragile between his fingers as Lorcan picked it up and sniffed it experimentally. And then he knew what it was. Even after ten years, the scent of riverweed and sweat and that horrible tinge of _other_ that the Wyrdkey had given it. But he uncrumpled the note anyway and read,

 _Here's hoping you find more creative terms than "bitch" to call me when you find this._

 _With all my love,_

 _A. A. G._

He hadn't even realised he'd kept the note, instead of chucking it into the river with the rest of the fake amulet. Hadn't realised that it had probably fallen to the bottom of his pack and toppled out into Rowan's or the like sometime whilst travelling to find the imprisoned queen. Hadn't realised that even after her trauma, the woman would be lucid enough to keep the note - as a taunt, a victory medal, or both - and keep it for ten years.

But then again, this was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and not even Elide could play as many games as her at once, or for so long.

He roughly crumpled the note back into its ball, and slipped it into the pocket of his trousers. "What were you intending on doing, then?"

Nox sat back smugly. "I was told to come here to assist you in whatever way I could. I was given no instructions beyond that." He waved his hand in a lazy gesture. "I am yours to command."

Lorcan was about to open his mouth to refuse, then he stopped. And looked at the man. _Really_ looked at him.

Nox had a wiry frame, but it was well-muscled, and Lorcan suspected he could use the array of steel he now saw peeking out from amongst the folds of his cloak at his waist. But the important thing was, he looked about as light as a feather. Lorcan had a thought: _I could probably throw him further than I trust him_.

"How're your climbing skills?" He asked.

Nox's grin was a glint of light off an unsheathed blade. "Excellent. Ever since the fall I took in the competition to become the King's Champion, it's been my number one priority in training."

Superfluous information, yet. . . Lorcan had heard about that event. Heard that it had been the assassin-queen who'd saved his life. And knew that it was probably one of the many debts that bound them.

So Lorcan smiled back. It felt strange after a week of frowning. "Well then, here's my plan for getting her out. . ."


	11. Into The Void

_Nox couldn't find a hold on the stone wall, and without a nearby ledge or gargoyle to grasp, he had nowhere to go but down. Once the rope broke, he'd fall._

 _The rope groaned. Celaena moved._

 _She slid down the drainpipe, the flesh on her hands and feet tearing open as the metal cut into her skin, but she didn't let herself think of the pain. The mercenary on the gargoyle below only had time to lean into the wall as she slammed onto the creature's head, gripping its horns to steady herself. The mercenary had already tied one end of his climbing rope around the gargoyle's neck; now she seized it and tied the other around her own waist._

 _Nox shouted at Grave, and she dared a look to where the thief dangled. There was a sharp snap of a rope breaking, and Nox's cry of fear and rage, and Celaena took off, sprinting across the backs of the four gargoyles before she launched herself into the void._

* * *

Ombriel was convinced she was doing the right thing.

 _She_ was the one bringing in the extra money to the circus. She knew Molly and Nik had no idea why the Queen of Melisande was endorsing them to travel about, but they were willing to take whatever money they could get to keep the circus running. She was the one who was actually did the work they were all paid to do, and the rest of them were none the wiser. True, she didn't know _why_ the queen wanted her to set minor explosions on the edges of all the major cities in Erilea, but she didn't question it.

She'd learned in the War what happened to the people who got a little too involved in the politics of the continent.

But she couldn't deny she wasn't enjoying the extra money. With the new swords and new clothes she'd been able to afford, Ombriel felt like a whole different person.

Possibly because she _was_ a whole different person, she mused as she crept towards the walls of Ilium. The old her - the one she'd been before she ever met gods-damned Lady Elide and her guard dog - would never have sunk to this level.

But morals blurred during wars, and even afterward, it was hard to tell right from necessary.

The walls loomed before her suddenly, like the absence of stars in the night, and she gave her pack a reassuring touch, as though to check it was still there. It was.

She stopped at the base of the walls, and shrugged the pack off. She rooted through the sachets inside it, but stiffened when something white fell out.

It was a note, written in Nik's handwriting.

Nik, who she'd known as Molly's second in command since she was a child, who had conspired to turn Marion into the garrison in that town with her, who she'd laughed and lived and loved with for most of her life, because that was what family did.

It read, _I'm sorry, Ombriel_.

He hadn't even signed his name.

And then, as she crushed the note in her hand, she knew what was going to happen next with a pure and piecing certainty.

Hands gripped her shoulder. Rough hands - worn and rugged from years at sea. Another pair of hands searched her pack.

"Looks like the bitch queen's spies were right," was all she needed to hear before she gave herself up for questioning.

* * *

When she would look back on her experiences in the tower, Elide wouldn't be ashamed to say that she spent the first two days crying and screaming in despair. It was a perfectly natural reaction.

But she was proud of how she'd acted from then on.

The head injury the queen had given her acted up every time she sobbed, and on the second day the queen sent in a healer, cooing that "We don't need our star bargaining chip dying on us now do we?" The healer had diagnosed a concussion, and used a scrap of water magic to heal it, and prescribed lots of sleep for the next few days.

Elide had listened. After all, there was no way to succeed in the daring plan that was slowly starting to piece itself together at the back of her mind if she was too tired to fulfil it.

But she didn't sleep the whole time, the way the queen had hoped. Instead, for the day after the healer left she paced the length of her cell, grumbling incoherent strings of nonsense under her breath and slowly appearing to grow more and more agitated as the hours passed.

It wasn't until the sun was high in the sky the next morning that she lifted the table in the corner of the room and smashed it against the wall.

It was surprisingly light, and her hand slammed into the rock alongside it. Elide swore, but after a quick cursory glance she deduced that it wasn't broken, just sprained. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Then, she systematically smashed the table into bits.

The surface went first. She used her right foot to kick it downwards ,and it splintered into chunks the size of her fist. Then she snapped off each of the legs, and shattered two of them over her knee until the point became tender and sore. The remaining two she smuggled under her multitude of pillows, hoping that amidst the destruction, no one would notice the absence of wood.

Sure enough, the guards that came in only scowled when they saw the mess she'd made, and shoved her into the adjoining room that served as a toilet whilst they cleaned up the mess. Elide scowled right back, but took the time to study the view out of the small barred window in the bathroom, and noticed one thing: there was a single gargoyle below her - the only ornamentation on this tower, and far enough round that it wasn't visible from the main bulk of the city.

But it was a good ten foot drop from the window to gargoyle, and even then she'd have to get the bars off the window somehow just to get through it. She'd need rope, a file. . . She had bedsheets and wood, but. . .

A knock told her she could come out now. The guard cracked the door open and glared at her, especially when he realised she was standing by the window. She'd changed her expression from calculating to wistful the moment she heard the noise, but he still hurried in the shove her out, despite it. She had to smother a smile, though the urge to frown was equally as tempting. How could she escape when they were always this suspicious?

Once the guards had left, she pulled out the two table legs. They felt chunky and uneven in her hands, and doubt soiled her gut. How could this work?

She took a deep breath. For whatever reason (likely so the queen could boast that she'd kept her bargaining chip in luxurious conditions and never mistreated her at all) she had a veritable mountain of pillows. She had plenty of pillow cases to tear up. And if she had to do it with her left hand. . . she'd handle it. She always did.

It was that, or let herself be used by a queen on the edge of desperacy, who'd risk provoking the most powerful monarchs in Erilea to get what she wanted.

So she steeled herself, and began her work.

* * *

The moon was out by the time she stopped for the day. She slept like the dead that night, then was up with the sunrise to continue working.

She tore the pillowcases into strips and used two especially long ones to tie the two table legs together in a lattice. Then the rest of the strips she tore off she wound round the frame and wove the whole thing into a sturdy enough platform.

It took her several days to finish, alongside several extra layers to make sure it wouldn't break, and by the time it was done it was as long as her arm in diameter. her fingernails were ragged and bleeding from how often she had to tear the tough material, and her teeth ached from where she'd had to rely on her canines to gnaw through something. She dunked her hands in the water provided for her to wash in, hissing as she flexed her injured hand, and watching as the water turned pink with blood.

She staggered into bed that day, resolving herself to make a rope out of bedsheets the next day.

But the sun was still hours from rising when she was rudely woken by the clinking of fingernails against metals. Or, the tapping of metal bars, to be precise.

"Elide!" hissed a voice. She heard in faintly through her sleep-fogged brain. "Lady Elide Lochan!"

She turned idly, still half-drowsy, started violently when she saw a moon-white face at the barred window. Her fist flew to her mouth to stifle her scream.

There was a man hanging from the window ledge outside. A gangly man, with pale eyes and a mess of dark hair. He appeared to be more skin than bone, but muscles bulged in his shoulders as he hoisted himself up to sit on the ledge, and she saw that his hands were sticky with some dark substance - probably tar.

"Lady Elide," the man repeated, slightly out of breath, "of Perranth. I was sent up here by Lorcan Salvaterre, and to prove it he told me to tell you that you promised anyone who thought he was a dishonoured male would have no place in Perranth. And I had to ask _you_ , what was the name of the healer who helped with your ankle?"

"Yrene," she said faintly. "Yrene Towers."

The man grinned, then. "In which case, I am Nox Owen, we've met before." Indeed, she recognised him now her eyes had adjusted to the dark. She smiled weakly at him. "I was sent down here by our queen to help get you out. I've been assured that you'd probably have an idea how to do it yourself, and that I need only listen and help in whatever way I can. And keep Lorcan company so he doesn't destroy the city with his panic."

Elide laughed, but a part of her was awed at the fact Lorcan would do that for her. She knew he would - _gods_ , she knew it all too well after what happen on the beach in Eyllwe with Maeve - but it still gave her a slight thrill to acknowledge it. That, and the fact she would probably do the same for him as well.

Nox did a mock bow - or the closest parody of one he could do when he was halfway through scaling the side of a prison tower. "I am yours to command," he finished. "Tell me what you'll need."

"I'll need a file," she said slowly, thinking of the bars in the window, then of her injured hand. "Some bandages, too. A weapon wouldn't go amiss, either." Then she thought about the woven platform she'd made, and that obscure plan of escape tht suddenly seem very real and tangible. "And a lot of rope."


	12. Cunning Little Liar

_"What do you mean, Rifthold is gone?"_

 _"Well, it's not gone, but. . . witches now control it, on behalf of Duke Perrington. Dorian Havilliard's been ousted."_

 _Elide, the cunning little liar, looked shocked. "We've been in the deep wild for weeks. Is Dorian Havilliard. . . dead?" She whispered the word, as if in horror. . . and as if to avoid being heard._

 _"Another person at the table said, "They never found his body, but if the Duke's proclaiming him not to be king anymore, I'd assume he's alive. No use making proclamations against a dead man."_

 _Thunder rattled, almost drowning out her whisper as she said, "Would he go North? To. . . her?"_

 _They knew precisely who Elide meant. And Lorcan knew exactly why she'd come here._

 _She was going to leave. Tomorrow, whenever the carnival rolled out. She'd likely hire one of those boats to take her northward, and he. . . he would go south. To Morath._

 _The companions swapped glances. "She's not in the North."_

 _It was Elide's turn to go still._

* * *

It turned out that asking Nox for rope had been the brightest idea she'd ever had.

He brought it up that very night, completing several trips in what must surely be bone-breaking time, and as she watched him descend, she had the peculiar thought that he resembled one of the lizards - geckos, she'd heard them be called - that scurried up and down the walls in this city.

He brought up rope, and a file, and he even supplied her with a small dagger. Not a sword, or even a short sword; those were too large, too noticeable. The one he'd brought up was made of steel that she could tell after a critical examination was well made and strong, and the hilt had no adornment. She knew instantly that it was one of Lorcan's.

When the first glimmers of orange began to caress the sky, Nox promised to carry up more rope the next night, and Elide went back to sleep, cautious to hide her materials from plain sight. The next day she spent cutting and tying the rope to create a safe harness for her to tie herself in, and to steady the basket (she had taken to calling the platform a basket in her head; the description fit) as she descended. Once she was done, she let herself sleep for the remainder of the time until Nox would come again.

It was just like the fairy tale Finnula had told her, she mused just before she fell asleep. Except Rapunzel could get herself out of the tower this time, thank you very much.

When she next saw Nox, she told him that she would be escaping there and then, before the dawn came again. Even in the midnight gloom, she saw the way his face paled as she explained her idea, but he promised to tell Lorcan and have him on watch for her.

After he descended again, she went through to the bathroom, and the barred window. She'd used the file to loosen them during the day, and now she worked at them harder once again. The awful, scraping sound of metal on metal echoed but she sawed with her left hand, and clutched the bar with her injured right to stop vibrations, so the noise was dull and flat. She'd noted that the guard on duty was on his nightly rounds where he stood at the bottom of the tower stairs, rather than the top, so she was confident he wouldn't hear. But she jumped at every sound, her heart thudding in her jugular.

Finally, the bars came loose, creating a gap wide enough for her to squeeze through. She'd have to bend the basket slightly, but she'd anticipated that, and built it accordingly.

Elide estimated she had about an hour before the light came when she prepared to escape. An early morning cloud had descended on Monsandes, and she took it as a gift and an omen: Anneith's way of telling her that it was now or never.

She much preferred the now.

First, she used the dagger to slice off the bottom of her dress, until it more resembled a short tunic. Her underpants sufficiently covered her legs, but she no longer had the excess of skirts to hinder her movement. Then she removed her shoes and socks, and flexed her bare feet.

She'd knotted and tied and loosened the gargantuan rope structure she'd made into a pulley, of sorts, that she now tucked under one arm. The spare rope she tied around the leg of the enormous bed, and led it through the door and out of the window, to where it dangled ten feet down, to just above the gargoyle. With her basket folded and strapped across her back, she perched on the windowsill for an instant, looking down. The mist lent the night a silvery air, and though she could make out the shape of the gargoyle, she couldn't see much further than that.

She took a breath, and closed her eyes for an instant. She had studied this view for hours. She knew what was there. The lack of sight was not a problem. It was a hindrance to the queen - not to her.

She gripped the rope between her two hands so hard her fingernails pierced the heels of her hands. Her right hand throbbed. She ignored it, and swung out of the window.

It was a graceless motion, and she stifled a cry of pain as her left shoulder collided with the wall. An audible crack. She tested her left arm for movement, and gave a ragged sigh of relief when it twinged a little, but showed full motor capability.

Her hands started to ache from the death grip they exerted, so she tentatively reached out with her feet for the rope. It slithered just out of reach, brushing her heels tauntingly, then she'd found it, and it was pressed firmly between the arches of her feet. She shifted her weight downwards slightly, and half-screamed when she dropped a few inches. Her heart shrieked in fear.

Hyperawareness of the situation came next. She could feel the nothingness below and behind her with a keen certainty. Ironically, only the feel of the rough stone wall scraping the skin off her shoulder grounded her. Again, a slight release of pressure in her hands had her plummeting down and down and down; she tightened them, gasping.

Her head thudded. She could hear and feel the thudding in every part of her body, from her fingertips to her chest to her throat. Her bare feet froze against the wall.

How far down was it? A hundred feet? Two hundred? Or if she let go, would she never hit the ground, and instead keep tumbling down and down and down and down and down into the pits of Hell where Anneith and Hellas reigned?

 _Enough of this_. Elide didn't know if the voice was hers or Anneith's. It sounded like her mother's. _Keep going. You're not dead yet_.

The word _yet_ was oddly relaxing to her. She was human, or a close enough approximation of one; she would die one day. There was no two ways about it. She could keep going now, and make the most of what time she had, or she could give up and let it come faster. Both ways had the same ending, just at different times.

But only one of the ways ended with the Queen of Melisande looking like a complete and utter fool.

Her hands were starting to burn; the rope was coarse, and her palms were scratched raw. So she let them be scratched further, as she slipped down a few more inches, then began to climb.

Hand over hand, foot over foot, she descended.

When her feet hit thin air, she froze. There was no rope left, and she hadn't yet reached the gargoyle. It was too short.

 _Fuck_. She let herself think the word, then it was ripped away and flung into the silvery mist, now bright with the first strokes of daylight, and left to freefall over the city in a way that she would not.

She had two options.

Climb back up, and return to being a prisoner. (It wasn't even really an option.)

Or she could just let go, and hope she was low enough to land accurately enough on the gargoyle's back. Lorcan could do it, she thought, but Lorcan wasn't the one doing it. She was.

Was Lorcan even here? Could he see her through the mist? Was he watching her fail at this very moment? Or was he already plotting to abandon her and leave Terrasen and Erilea the moment he could, like he had ten years ago?

No. Lorcan wouldn't have left. She knew that much.

Was he here then, seeing her weakness, her ineptitude, as she undertook a task far too big for her to ever succeed? Was he there scoffing, thinking she should have left the rescues to him or thinking that she'd have been better off as a pawn in the queen's game? Was he remembering her words to him in Terrasen, so long ago, claiming that she was _not a little girl_?

She had lied. She had lied she had lied she had lied. Or rather, she had been naïve enough to think that was the truth.

She _was_ a little girl. She was a girl, she was a coward, she was little Marion again fleeing Morath, letting Kaltain Rompier die for her all over again.

 _No._

It was her voice this time.

 _Marion never existed._

Marion had been a puppet, an alias, a fake identity to keep her safe. She'd been a product of intelligence and cunning, not of cowardice. Marion was Elide, and Elide was smart and brave and strong.

She was not weak.

She was not inept.

She was not a pawn - had sworn not to be the moment she refused to become breeding stock for Erawan and his ilk.

She was Elide Lochan, and she was perfectly able to rescue herself.

Her hands _burned_. She didn't think as she let go of the rope and cast herself into freefall.

Suddenly the wind blew harder and faster, and her unbound hair was tossed skyward, and everything was rushing at her, and she wanted to close her eyes against the stinging but then there was a dark mass below her and she had to see to be able to land safely. Hard cold stone collided with her ankles with a crack, she barely remembered to bend her legs, and she toppled forwards only to catch herself on the gargoyle's horns. She pushed backwards again just to hit the wall and then she was unbalanced and fell again but she remembered to spread her legs so she landed with an _oomph_ on her backside.

But she was mainly unharmed.

Her heart still beat wildly, her forehead sticky with sweat, despite how cold it was. Her hands hurt, her head hurt, her feet hurt, her backside hurt, and she just sat there for a moment, waiting for her breath to be shoved back down her throat.

She reached up behind her and with precise movements unstrapped the basket from her back. Calm - she was calm as she unfolded it; calm as she untangled the ropes from the pulleys and clutched one rope in her sweaty grip; calm as she looped the pulley around the gargoyle's neck, and clambered into the basket. Calm as a small tilt had her plummeting into free air again.

But she halted her fall by yanking on the rope with all her might, and held herself steady as she came to a complete standstill. Steady, steady, steady. She descended again, hand over hand as she released sections of the rope which in turn lowered herself further. The basket rocked in the non-existent breeze; she took a deep breath to slow her heart rate.

When she'd traversed the estimated distance, she stopped, and hung there, motionless. Her measurements weren't particularly accurate; she'd done her best, but she was relying on her ability to judge them from the top of a tower, leaning as far as she could out of a window. She'd tied a knot in the rope to indicate to herself where to stop, and stop she did when she reached it, but there was a good chance she hadn't gone far enough. . . as well as the good chance she had gone too far.

Elide closed her eyes briefly against her nervousness, and allowed herself a wry smile.

Well, she couldn't exactly turn back now, could she?

Still clutching the rope tightly with her left hand, she tentatively pressed the palm of her right against the wall. Then she rocked herself.

Forwards, backwards. Forwards, backwards. Forwards, backwards.

She began to gain speed.

 _Forwards, backwards. Forwards again, backwards again. Forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards, forwards backwards forwards backwards forwards backwards forwards backwards. . ._

She was swinging violently now, and for an instant, she released the wall to free her legs from their tangled positions inside the basket. Then she went back to rocking. _Forwards, backwards_.

She swung forwards. She waited for the basket to reach the peak of its arc, and didn't allow thought or fear to enter her heart as she jumped.

Air and breath and cold and mist and the dark stone of the battlements looming out of the mist and the silhouette of a guard-

She yelped as she crashed into him, with a tumble of clanks and screeches as his armour clattered to the ground with them. "What-" he began in a hoarse Monsandes burr, but she didn't leave a moment to let him _think_ about shouting a warning before her small dagger came out of where she'd strapped it to her thigh, and she shoved it between the junctures of his armour. Blood sprayed in her face; she scrunched her eyes shut against the onslaught.

A gurgle as he tried to speak through his cut throat, but then steel barked against bone, and she severed his spine. He died instantly.

She stood up on shaky legs, her breath a grater in her throat. Blood still dripped from her hand, and it sprayed the hem of her ruined dress as she pulled the dagger free. _Oh gods oh gods oh gods_.

She'd just killed someone. That quickly. That easily.

She was going to throw up.

 _Look around. See._

She obeyed, and then a thought clicked: Where were the other guards? Why hadn't they been summoned by the racket that had been his armour colliding with her and the ground? Why was the night so deadly silent?

Footsteps, and she tensed. Then-

"Elide?"

She looked up, squinting through the blood that coated her eyelashes. Lorcan - that was Lorcan in front of her, face ashen, sword out and dripping blood, eyes scanning her up and down for signs of injury. She took a step towards him, and was surprised when her legs didn't collapse beneath her.

"We killed the other men on watch, once we'd realised what you were doing." He said. His chest rose and fell so rapidly it was almost violent. Their eyes met, and she felt something flood into being, like the key had been turned in the lock of Pandora's box, and now hope and all the other devils of the world would come rushing out. His throat bobbed as their eyes met. "Elide, I-"

Someone coughed behind him. Elide stiffened abruptly, but when she peered through the mist she saw Nox approaching, a sword similarly dripping with blood hanging from his hand. "I'm glad you're alive and all," he said, "but we should probably get moving."

Lorcan nodded. "Yes. Yes. You're right." He sheathed his sword, and held out a hand for Elide. "Let's go."

She took it, and hopped nimbly over the corpse of the guard with a lightness that disgusted even her. They hurried along the battlements to the spiral staircase she spied at the end of them, and filed through the archway, then down down down, footsteps echoing, breaths deafening all the way.

Down, down, down again, out of an archway, down a servants' corridor, through another archway, then Lorcan slowed to a tiptoe beside her and she did the same as they came to walk in the gallery of a large hall she recognised as the throne room, and she heard something that made her stop dead in her tracks.

"And you're sure the Lady is secure in her tower?" rang a harsh voice she didn't want to recognise, but did.

The queen's voice, sounding uncharacteristically timid: "Yes, Matron. She has no way of escape, and there is no chance she'll be able to."

"That was what Erawan thought when he sent Vernon and the ilken to track her down during the War," replied the voice. Elide heard lazy footsteps as the speaker approached the throne. "That was what the previous King of Adarlan thought when he threw Lady Lysandra in a wagon and tried to have the Blackbeak traitor fly her to Morath. That was what Maeve thought when she locked the fire breathing bitch queen in an iron coffin and stole her away from her mate." The speaker's voice had taken on a distinctive drawl. "The nobility of Terrasen have fire and magic in their veins, and oh do they love to show how they can torch their enemies to ash."

"Lady Elide has no magic," the queen replied stubbornly. "And her only ally in this city fled for the hills at the first opportunity." Lorcan bristled. "She has no way of escape."

"Be that as it may, the fact remains that Aelin Galathynius doesn't like her country being insulted, and you've just handed her the greatest insult possible on a silver platter." _You've_. The speaker revelled in the word. "And I wouldn't be so sure about the Lady's magical abilities, Your Majesty. She _does_ come from a richly talented bloodline, after all. Not even counting the witch blood in her. Witches don't take kindly to being imprisoned."

Elide swallowed. It was true her family was notorious for its gifts, but it was also true that not a lick of potential had shown itself in her since she'd been born. She'd never thought she might be hunted for it.

"You're sowing doubt where there need be none," the queen insisted. There was no verbal response, but now Elide was sure she knew who it was saying such awful things, and she could imagine the sly smile they'd donned. She began to creep towards the gallery railings.

Lorcan and Nox had stopped now, and were looking at her questioningly. She shook her head at them, then peered over the railing.

She didn't need to gasp, but her heart rate increased tenfold, and beat so hard she wasn't sure the witches didn't hear it.

Because standing at the base of the steps up to the throne, grinning up at the queen like she was on top of the world, less than fifty feet away from Elide, was Iskra Yellowlegs.


	13. Helpless Humans

**Sorry it's been so long since I last updated - I went away for a few weeks. I'm back now, and there'll only be two chapters left, I think.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Throne of Glass.**

* * *

 _The woman gulped down great breaths of air, her dark skin flushed. "One of the laundresses sees a guard who works in the Keep dungeons. She said Elide's locked up down there. No one's allowed in but her uncle. Don't know what they're planning, but it can't be good."_

 _"What dungeons?"_

 _"She didn't know. He'll only tell her so much. Some of us girls were trying to - to see if there was anything that could be done, but-"_

 _"Tell no one that you spoke to me." Manon turned. Three dungeons, three possibilities._

 _"Wing Leader," the woman said. Manon looked over her shoulder. The woman put a hand on her hand. "Thank you."_

 _Manon didn't let herself think about the laundress's gratitude, or what it meant for those weak, helpless humans to have even considered trying to rescues Elide on their own._

 _She did not think that woman's blood would be watery, or taste of fear._

* * *

Despite her intention not to gasp, Elide gave a ragged inhale. She feared Iskra would hear her.

Iskra. That bullish, brutish witch Manon had hated, had spoken so fiercely and competitively about, whose coven had been used for breeding only to be spared by Kaltain's shadowfire-

What was she doing here?

Was it paranoia that made her believe the witches guarding Iskra looked her way, just for an instant? Was it paranoia that made every tiny movement she made sound like cymbals clashing, like a veritable thunderstorm? Or was it Anneith again, unconsciously guiding her towards the path of wisdom, the path of _not letting your captors know you've escaped_?

Her heartbeat thudded in her temples, and she crouched down, hidden behind the wall of the gallery. Lorcan and Nox had already crept across to the other door, and whilst Nox was wide eyed as he glanced down into the throne room, making no effort to hide the blatant fear on his face, Lorcan's eyes were fixed on her. _Run_ , he mouthed.

She shifted her weight onto the balls of her feet. He was right. They should run - she should run before her absence from the tower was realised, before the dead guards were found, before the entire city was searched and it was impossible to escape. She made to get up.

A hand on her shoulder, but there was nothing there. _Wait._ A tangible voice in her ear. Oddly enough, it didn't sound like Anneith. _See see see._

 _What is there to see?_

 _See_ , the voice insisted. _You have to_ see _._

So she crept forwards, ignoring the alarmed looks from her companions, and looked down into the main room.

Iskra was now standing directly in front of the throne, a position that should make it look to all the world like that she knew the queen well, and was engaging in a friendly conversation. But the queen's back was tense, her grip on the arms vice-like, and her grey eyes were staring over Iskra's shoulder, fixed on a spot far on the other side of the room.

Elide didn't turn to see what she was looking at. She knew it was likely that the woman was simply trying not to look at the witch in front of her.

Nothing she could do. They'd dropped their voices and now she couldn't hear their conversation anymore, no matter how hard she strained her ears. She couldn't help the situation any more - she could go home to Terrasen and they could defeat Melisande and the witches in battle - and she could get out free and safe - that was the wise choice.

 _Good,_ Anneith - it was Anneith this time, she was sure - whispered. _Good. See. Use this information you have gathered. Stay alive. Go._

Running would be the wise choice. She could help with the war. She could be a figurehead, help Aelin stir up support. Anneith had been silent for ten years; the fact that she was speaking to her now should be revolutionary, make it clear that this was a dangerous time, and that she would need wisdom more than anything else in the coming days.

 _GO!_

She should go. Lorcan and Nox's frantic faces were begging her to go. But. . .

Anneith's voice had been missing in her head for ten years. Why? It had been far more tumultuous then than it had been since she came to Melisande - she was a Lady; she'd needed wisdom and her wits about her from the moment she was born. She'd since been praised as wise and clever and selfless - all during Anneith's absence.

Her fate was not dependant on the words of a goddess in her ear. Her fate was dependant on her own actions. She'd known this before she came: What had changed? Why was she now letting others tell her what to do?

She had gotten herself out of that tower. She was not in chains any longer. So why did she act like she was?

 _Go. Please._

What good could she do if she carried this information about the witches and their attacks on Monsandes back to Terrasen? The message the queen had sent out meant they undoubtably knew she was a threat. Undoubtably knew the Wastes were in danger, and that the witches were involved. Hadn't that been precisely how the message had been worded?

Her never walking out of here would change nothing - martyrdom might even help stir up further support for Terrasen.

Iskra never walking out of here, on the other hand, could change _everything_. They could cut off the head of a snake before it bit, and strike again before it managed to grow a new one.

 _Be wise. Go._

Wisdom was using your brains to get the most you could out of a situation. Achieving your goals with the fewest casualties.

To her, wisdom had always meant staying alive. Had always meant doing the smart thing from day to day to get the greatest chance of survival. But she wasn't surviving day to day anymore.

Now, her goals were different. Running wouldn't be wisdom; it would be cowardice.

She needed to protect Perranth. She needed to protect Terrasen. She needed to protect all the young women in the world who'd lived as hellish lives as she had, and everyone else who suffered on this cruel plane of existence.

So wisdom, in this case, would be ensuring that the least suffering happened. If she left, they could defend the Wastes and face the witches in a full scale battle, with both sides prepared. It would be devastating.

 _You will never get another chance like this._ The thought sprung to mind. It wasn't Anneith speaking; it was her.

A chance to do what? Kill Iskra? That much was true.

If Iskra died here, in this chamber, what would happen? The witches would be weakened, without a definitive leader, though not for long. Terrasen could strike quickly and mercilessly, and the battle would be won with fewer deaths on their part. That would be wisdom: assuring victory for her, her friends and her country.

Elide took in a deep breath, and it was like Anneith sensed her resolve, because she instantly withdrew. Elide was on her own now.

She looked back down at the throne room. There were no cubbies, no obvious places for an assassin to hide. Her eyes trailed upward, past thick curtains perhaps Nox could climb, to-

 _Ah._

The chandelier that shed light on the scene, touched by the first few rays of sunrise, was an industrial one. It had a sliding mechanism that enabled a servant to move it from one end of the room to the other. It could be to make cleaning it more viable, or so in the winter they didn't have to install a second chandelier. It didn't matter. Either way, it would be useful.

And what's more, it wasn't held aloft by chains, but ropes. Another crack in the seemingly "fine" façade the palace wore.

Her eyes roved over the structure of it. It was compromised of two central dodecagons, each holding twelve blazing candles, one slightly smaller than and raised above the other. Thick cross bars held the two shapes together. It looked very, very heavy.

She moved then. She went to join Lorcan in the doorway. "I need you to cut the chandelier loose," she hissed. His shocked face preceded the rest of the instructions, "after Nox has moved it to directly above Iskra Yellowlegs. It should trap her for long enough for you to kill her."

Nox's face temporarily drained of colour, but he admitted, ". . . that's a good plan."

She nodded in acceptance of the praise, and turned to Lorcan. "Think you can do it?"

His brow was furrowed as he studied the chandelier. "Yeah," he said slowly, then with more vigour. "Yes. I can." He took a breath. "We just have to wait for-" When they looked down, Iskra had stepped away from the queen, "-that."

Elide nodded; she understood. The queen was the only one of her bloodline. If she were to die, a civil war might break out.

Lorcan jerked his head at Nox. "Go and move the chandelier to over the witches." He nodded, and ran to the controls at the other end of the gallery. She watched with bated breath as the mechanism creaked minimally, but began to move.

Iskra was still talking, the queen's gaze still resolutely looking away from her. Her eyes widened minutely at the moving chandelier, but she said nothing. (Elide would never be able to say why.) The witches, facing the queen, didn't notice.

Once the chandelier was in position, Nox unhooked his crossbow from his belt. He nodded at Lorcan.

The demi-Fae threw the dagger.

It sheared through the rope instantly, the force behind it taking it over to the opposite wall and clattering to the floor. Iskra's sentinels whipped their heads to watch it fall. Their mistake. Nox felled them effortlessly with two well placed bolts.

The queen looked up at them, standing at the edge of the gallery. Her eyes fixed themselves on Elide, and didn't move from her, even as Nox's crossbow found its home in Iskra's heart, trapped under the cage-like structure of the chandelier. "You got out," she breathed. Her mouth was agape.

Elide crossed her arms, and borrowed a phrase from Manon. "No shit."


	14. The Gods-Damned Truth

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed!**

 **This will be the last chapter. I won't write another one set in the future, or where they go from here or anything, because I'm not really a fan of epilogues in that sense, so this is it. Thanks to everyone who's read this far, whether as and when I updated, or years after I finished it. I hope you enjoyed this fic!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Throne of Glass. It belongs to Sarah J. Maas.**

* * *

 _"Tell me," drawled a deep, male voice behind her, from near the driver's seat. "What would you have done if I were an ilken soldier?"_

 _Relief turned her bones to liquid, and Elide held in her sob. She twisted to find Lorcan covered in black blood, sitting on the bench behind the driver's seat, his legs spread before him. His axe and sword lay discarded beside him, coated in that black blood as well, and Lorcan idly chewed on a long stalk of wheat as he gazed at the canvas wall of the wagon._

 _"The first thing I might have done in your place," Lorcan mused, still not looking at her, "would have been to ditch the robe. You'd fall flat on your face if you ran - and the red would be as good as ringing the dinner bell."_

 _"The second thing I might have done," Lorcan went on, not even bothering to wipe away the blood spattered on his face, "is tell me the gods-damned truth. Did you know those ilken beats_ love _to talk with the right encouragement? And they told me some very, very interesting things." Those dark eyes at last slid to her, utterly vicious. "But you didn't tell me the truth, did you, Elide?"_

* * *

"How-" The queen looked stunned. "How did you get out? The guard-" She checked the clock. "The guard should be on his rounds now; he would have noticed if you'd come down the stairs."

"Maybe I didn't come down the stairs, Your Highness," Elide all but spat back, before reigning herself in. The familiar touch of Anneith's hand on her shoulder didn't come as she stalked towards the end of the gallery, descended the stairs, and came out into the throne room.

"But that's hardly what matters." She walked forwards until she was as the base of the steps up to the raised dais the throne sat on. Iskra's corpse was less than two metres to her left, still caged by the chandelier, but she ignored it as she defiantly met the queen's gaze. "What matters is this: _Why the fuck did you lock me up in the first place?_ "

The queen's lips were wan. "I already explained in the tower that-"

"No," Elide cut her off. "You told me as much as you thought you'd be _allowed_ to tell me. I don't want the carefully prepared words of a puppet queen - I want the truth. And if you want there to be the _slightest_ possibility that this offence won't escalate into a full scale _war_ , then I suggest you _start talking_!"

"I don't owe you anything!" the queen hissed. "Not all of us have goddesses protecting us, _my lady_. Not all of us had a hard and noble fight to return to our long lost queen. I've had to make sacrifice after sacrifice after sacrifice for my country, and you will not patronise me now!"

Rant over, she slumped in her seat, like it had completely used up the little fight left in her. Her eyes moved from Elide, to behind her. The woman turned to look.

Lorcan had just walked through the doors at the other end of the throne room; they slammed shut with a bang. Nox had apparently climbed down the curtain and now stood near the wall, his crossbow held casually in his hands, but loaded and ready to fire if necessary. The queen gave them both cursory glances, and Elide saw her throat bob.

"When the attacks began," she said quietly. Elide didn't let her surprise at the acquiescence show, "we didn't know what was happening. There would be a peaceful evening, then the next morning people reported hearing screams and crashes. Houses just on the edge of the city walls were attacked and destroyed, their owners either having fled or been killed. The corpses," she took a choking breath, "were _half eaten_. We were all terrified.

"A few weeks passed, and we didn't have the money to rebuild the walls. The attacks were getting closer to the city centre, carving through the houses that had been destroyed in previous nights. People carried weapons around, even during the day. Others evacuated the city to live in the countryside, and we heard rumours that they'd been killed too. None of the country dwellers who'd been there before - only those from the city.

"When Iskra," she cast a sneering look at the witch's corpse, "approached me with the offer of an alliance in return for the attacks to stop, I readily agreed. I couldn't stand by and let my people be killed further - even with all the palace guards being transferred to city guards, the rate of death didn't stop. What was one Lady from the country who'd left us so desolate in return for that?

"So I hired Ombriel to stage the attacks on _other_ Erilean cities - using hellfire, instead of wyverns. And I planted the clues that would lead to your queen sending you here, so we could spring the trap."

Lorcan's hands twitched towards the blood-stained knife at his waist; Nox's finger tightened minutely on the trigger. But the queen seemed unfazed.

No, not unfazed, Elide realised. Resigned. Hopeless.

"And now, here we are." The queen spread her arms. "What a mess."

For maybe the first time, Elide noticed just how tired the queen looked. Melisande had swayed to Erawan in the War, but. . . they would have died otherwise. All of them. And the country was still being punished for it.

As was its queen.

"The witches wanted to take back their homeland; they wanted Terrasen and Adarlan's troops sitting tight in their capitals whilst Ansel's were overwhelmed," Elide said quietly. "Isn't that what you said? In the tower?"

The Queen of Melisande nodded.

She turned around, and gestured for Lorcan to sheathe his blade. Nox lowered his crossbow.

"Then it was not your fault." She laid a hand on the queen's shoulder. "Melisande has had a hard run these past few decades. You now have a staunch ally in Queen Aelin's inner circle." The queen looked up in shock, but her dark eyes met Elide's, and realised she was serious. Tears welled up and gave her gaze a silvery tinge. "I urge you, contact me if there is _anything_ I can do to help."

"Elide," Lorcan said slowly. "Are you sure this is wise?"

Anneith was silent. "Yes," was her response. "I am."

The Queen of Melisande found her voice. "Thank you, my lady." She reached up, and took the woman's hand, squeezed it gently. " _Thank you_ , Elide."

Elide just furrowed her brows. "What's your name?"

The queen jerked her head up; apparently, she hadn't realised that none of them knew it either. "Isobel," she said hoarsely. "Isobel Regina."

The Lady of Perranth nodded, and stepped back. "We need to leave." Her voice was calm - diplomatic. "The sooner we can get back to Terrasen, the sooner Aelin's temper gets defused, and the smaller chance there is that she'll start a war."

"Agreed," Nox piped up.

The queen glanced out of the east window. The sun was beginning to peep above the horizon, like it finally had the nerve to now that the bloodshed had ended. "If you leave now, and take a few fast horses, you should be able to reach Terrasen by nightfall," she advised. "I can send your luggage behind you, if speed is of the essence."

"It is." Elide nodded at Lorcan. "We'll head off right away." She made to leave, before pausing. "Thank you, Isobel."

The queen smiled then. It wasn't a controlled smile, like Elide was accustomed to seeing, nor was it a smirk. It was a full-blown, beaming grin. One that seemed to dwarf the sunrise. "No," she corrected. "Thank _you_ , Elide."

* * *

The moment they stopped at a water trough to let the horses drink, Lorcan resumed his incessant questioning.

"Are you sure-"

"Are you a politician, Lorcan?" Elide couldn't help the tiny snap to her voice, but in her defence, he'd asked her this at least a dozen times already. Wisely, he didn't answer. "Because, as I've said, I'm fairly sure this gamble will pay off. Queen Isobel will make a good ally sometime in the future, and until then we've repaired ties with a country that was otherwise fairly hostile to Terrasen."

" _She locked you up!_ "

"Exactly." Elide twisted around to face the demi-Fae riding beside her. "She locked _me_ up, Lorcan. _I'm_ the one who gets to decide whether or not she gets forgiveness. Is that so hard to understand?"

"No." The wind sent a lock of her hair dancing; she tucked it behind her ear again. His eyes tracked the motion. "But it doesn't mean I'm not angry on your behalf. Elide, you could have _died_. You were suspended from a tower, hundreds of metres above the ground, with only a bedsheet and a basket between you and certain death. How am I supposed to just forget that?"

"You don't." With a sigh, she took a handle of water and splashed her face and neck. Nox had already disappeared into the bushes for one reason or another. "I certainly won't. But you do need to forgive it. If you murdered everybody who slighted you in the world, I'm afraid you'd end up drowning yourself in blood."

"You consider that a mere _slight_?" She didn't think she'd ever heard him sound more incredulous.

"I consider it an unavoidable circumstance." She narrowed her eyes at him, and was suddenly struck by how. . . _open_. . . he looked. She hadn't seen this much raw emotion on his face since the marshes of Eyllwe. She unconsciously allowed it to soften her voice as she said, "Why can't you accept that?"

"Because-" He stiffened, then started again. "Elide, I-" He moved his mouth, but no sound came out.

"You love me?" she observed quietly. He nodded silently, and the sun struck her head as she shook it with a small smile. "I know. Lorcan, I've known for _years_. After that stunt you pulled with Maeve, how could I _not_ know?"

His eyes were fixed to some point in the distance behind her. She took his chin in her hand and made him look down at her.

"And _I love you too_ ," she continued, a smile spreading across her lips at the abject shock and hope that lit up his features. "But I _do_ wonder sometimes how you've lived centuries without learning how to let go of a grudge. How are you supposed to move forward if you're tied down here?"

He still seemed stunned into silence, but his shoulders relaxed when she put her arms around him and rested her head against his chest. His hand came up to rest on her back. "So where are we moving on to then?" he asked, somewhat gruffly. She smiled to herself.

"Well, next we go home to Terrasen." She closed her eyes. "Then, we try to stop Manon from murdering you for a whole slew of reasons I don't want to go into right now. We convince Aelin to help us foster good relations with Melisande. We _help_ Melisande. We keep going." She tilted her head back to smile up at him. The sun behind his head limned his hair in light, like he was wearing a crown of gold. "We just keep going."

* * *

 **Thanks for reading!**


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